' Riverside Literature 

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DE QIJINCEY5 

Joan of Arc 
Olid 

Endlish MailCoach 



:h 



Houghton, Mifflin S^ Co, 




Class r i\ n u 3 
Book_ : 



Copyright!^". 



'^O^) a. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




THOMAS DE QUINCEY 



(Elie iliii)ct0iDc JiitttatuK g>re«« 



JOAN OF ARC 

AND 

THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

BY 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

EDITED FOR STUDY BY 

Rr ADELAIDE WITHAM 

BBCENTLY HEAD OP THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT OP THE CLASSICAL HIGH SCHOOL 
PROVIDENCE, B. 1. 




HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 378-388 Wabash Avenue 

(9rftc RitJcrsiDe pte0, CambriDge 



LIBHARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

APR 27 1906 

iomright Entry 

20.i9dU 

COPY B. 



^^ 



^ 






^ 



V 






COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN * CO. 



Aii rights reserved 



PREFACE 

It cannot be denied that De Quincey's prose offers many 
difficulties to young readers. To them those comparisons and 
allusions which his quick, resourceful mind compassed with a 
single bound often present but the discouraging necessity of fer- 
reting out unfamiliar facts and relating them by associations 
which are, at best, but "new hatched to the woeful time." 
The notes, therefore, have been made more numerous than the 
strictest pedagogical orthodoxy might approve in order to clear 
the way for a free, unhampered response to the life and color, 
music and magic of these two essays. 

So true is it that De Quincey's prose, like Milton's poetry, 
must be heard to be appreciated, that it is hardly necessary to 
express the hope that some good reader may, at the outset, 
read the essays aloud to the class. Tben may follow at discre- 
tion such lines of study as are suggested by the introduction. 

Some apology is, perliaps, due for the elementary character of 
the outlines for the study of De Quincey's style and the criti- 
cism of any essay. These topics were honestly developed in 
actual classroom work in an attempt to encourage pupils to dis- 
cuss an author's style ; and, readily remembered in their logical 
order, they succeeded in assisting even the most inarticulate 
student to express some personal appreciation of a whole essay 
or of passages selected here and there for criticism. 

But better than being glib about the style of Joan of Arc and 
The English Mail-Coach is being impressed by their power; 
and it is the sincere wish of the editor that those who use this 
volume will frankly discard any part of its equipment that 
does not make for that end. 

R. Adelaide Witham. 

Boston, Massachusetts, 
■ December 20, 1905. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Editor's Preface . , . .' v 

The Life of Thomas de Quincey vii 

The Essay as a Literary Form xxxii 

The Structure and Style of "Joan of Arc" and "The 

English M ail-Coach " xxxviii 

Outline for General Study of an Essay . . . xHx 

Bibliography Hi 

Chronological Table liii 

JOAN OF ARC 1 

THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 27 

ExPLANAToar Notes 73 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

A CERTAIN critic of the literary work of Thomas De Quincey 
has observed that the rule of all his autobiographic writing 
might be shortly summed up thus: "! shall be honest, strictly 
honest, in all that I reveal of myself ; but I cannot g^ ^j jj^ 
reveal all." Small wonder is it, then, that it has Qalncey's 
been well-nigh impossible for the biographer to re- genius 
veal fully the inner life of this man wlio baffled even him- 
self. One thinks for a moment that he has De Quincey's 
genius accurately labelled and settled, when suddenly a new 
power, or an unguessed passion, manifests itself, and all is to 
be readjusted. Undeniably, he was all his life an. impenetra- 
ble being; not so much a comprehensible personality as "a 
strange bunch of sensitive and intellectual nerves, over which 
the phenomena of the world could creep with the certainty of a 
keen response, and that could secrete thoughts and fantasies."^ 
To show sympathetically what were some of those *' responses " 
and "fantasies," rather than to give exhaustive information or 
final judgment, is the purpose of this sketch of the life and 
work of De Quincey. 

First, let us acknowledge the introduction to the man himself 
so happily furnished by Mr. Thadvvorth Hodgson in his essay 
entitled The Genius of De Quiyicey. 

"He came, the bard, a little Druid wight 
Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen, 
With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight, 
As is his sister of the copses green. 
He crept along, unpromising of mien. 
Gross he who judges so! His soul was fair, 
Bright as the children of yon azure sheen. 
True comeliness, which nothing can impair, 
Dwells in the mind: all else is vanity and glare." 2 

1 Masson. 

2 From Thomson's Castle of Indolence ; the description of the bard Philome- 
lus. 



via THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

For the origin of De Quincey's family we may make authority 
of the insistent correction which, as a boy of sixteen, 
he offered to His Majesty, George the Third. The 
king, acknowledging the presentation of the lad, intimated that 
his name showed him to be of French extraction. " Your fam- 
ily came into England with the Huguenots at the revocation of 
the edict of Nantes ? " inquired the king graciously. 

" Please your Majesty, the family has been in England since 
the Conquest," was the reply. 

" And how do you know that ? " 

" From Robert of Gloucester's Metrical Chronicle,^' came 
the ready response. 

And the king, smiling, acquiesced, ''I know; I know." 

" What it was that he knew," De Quincey adds, " long 
afterwards puzzled me to conjecture." Probably the king, who 
prided himself on his knowledge of genealogy, knew that he 
did not mean to be caught in ignorance by a slip of a lad 
who had just stopped his game of whirling stones to doff his 
cap to royalty. However that may be, the De Quinceys were 
originally of the district of Quince in Normandy, and, coming 
to England with William the Conqueror, had risen there to 
some distinction. A branch of this same stock, emigrating to 
New England, became the forbears of American statesmen and 
men of letters. They, as did their brothers in England, dropped 
the de. De Quincey's father always signed himself plain Thomas 
Quincey ; and it was after all his son, who so hotly denied 
recent French extraction, who reverted to the French prefix. 

Thomas Quincey is described by his son as "a merchant — 

not in the Scotch sense, where it might mean only one who 

sold vegetables from a cellar, but in the English 
Parents j. j • r • 

sense of a man engaged in foreign commerce in 

America or the West Indies." These business ventures must 
have succeeded, for his English home was established on a lib- 
eral basis, as the son bears witness. " We, the children of the 
house, stood upon the very happiest tier in the social scaffold- 
ing for all good influences. The prayer of Azur — Give me 
neither poverty 7ior riches — was realized for us. That bless- 
ing we had, being neither too high nor too low. High enough 
Ave were to see models of good manners ; obscure enough to be 
left in the securest of solitudes." But even prosperity could not 
purchase the presence among them of him who provided so 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY IX 

well for his children. " When only seven," De Quincey writes, 
" odd as it sounds, I had a brother and a father, neither of 
whom would have been able to challenge me as a relative, nor 
I him, had we happened to meet on the public roads." Ill 
health kept the father for years abroad, and allowed him only 
an occasional visit to England. One of his son's earliest recol- 
lections was the arrival home of the invalid " one summer even- 
ing of unusual solemnity." The children had watched for his 
carriage for a long while, but it came along the avenue so noise- 
lessly that their first impression was of " the emerging of the 
horses' heads from the deep gloom of the lane ; the next, the 
mass of white pillows against which the dying patient was reclin- 
ing." "And this," De Quincey adds, " was the sole memorial 
which restores my father's image to me as a personal reality ; 
otherwise he would have been for me a bare nominis imibra'^ 
If we look to the father for literary ability we find it evi- 
denced in only one book, A Short Tour in the Midland 
Counties, — brief, businesslike observations upon the farming, 
manufactures, and mining of the districts visited, lightened by 
a few poetic touches that foreshadow his son's genius. Of his 
mother, a Miss Penson, De Quincey writes : " Though unpre- 
tending to the name and honors of a literary woman, I shall 
presume to call her (what many literary Avomen are not) an 
intellectual woman : " and her letters, if published, he doubts 
not would have been as " racy and fresh " as those of Lady 
Mary Wortley Montagu. 

Of this union came eight children, of which Thomas, the 
fifth, was born in Manchester on the loth of August, Birth, 
1785. A few weeks later, the family removed to ^' a 1785 
pretty rustic dwelling " known as " The Farm," and thence 
before long to a larger country estate called " Greenhay." 

The record of De Quincey's life from its earliest years — for 
he tells us that a "dawning sense of the infinite brooded over" 
him from the time he was two years old — is pecu- „^.,^^ 
liarly a record of emotions and reflections. ISTo auto- 
biography has ever clothed itself so densely in the atmosphere 
of revery and dream as have those sketches which he has left 
of his youth. He singles out for vis four special blessings of his 
childhood : that he lived in rustic solitude ; that this solitude 
was in England ; that his infant feelings were moulded by the 
gentlest of sisters and not by " horrid pugilistic brothers ; " 



X THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

and that he and they were dutiful and loving members of a 
"pure, holy, and magnificent Church." 

Of his love of solitude in his sixth year he says : " Now be- 
gan to unfold themselves the consolations of solitude. . . . All 
Love ol day long T sought the most silent and sequestered 

solitude nooks in the grounds about the house or in the 
neighboring fields. The awful stillness sometimes of summer 
noons, when no winds were abroad, the appealing silence of 
gray or misty afternoons, — these were fascinations as of witch- 
craft. Into the woods, into the desert air, I gazed, as if some 
comfort lay in them." 

The words "the gentlest of sisters" conjure up the touching 
pictures of the little Jane and Elizabeth, whose deaths col- 
Love for ored his outlook upon life. "I was sad for Jane's 
his sisters absence. But still in my heart I trusted that she 
would come again. Summer and winter came again — crocuses 
and roses ; why not little Jane ? " For his second experience 
of death even solitude could give no comfort. Creeping alone 
to the room where Elizabeth lay in death, standing by her 
bedside, rapt upon the beauty of her face, he passed into a 
trance-like dream that we can but feel was the prototype of all 
those moments of intense feeling that have given us his most 
beautiful rhapsodies. He describes it in his sketches : " A 
vault seemed to open in the zenith of the far blue sky, a shaft 
which ran up forever. I, in spirit, rose as if on billows that 
also ran up the shaft forever ; and the billows seemed to pursue 
the throne of God ; but that also ran before us and fled away 
continually. The flight and the pursuit seemed to go on forever 
and ever." 

Such visions came to him during the services at church. 
" There, while the congregation knelt through the long litany, 
Love for ^^ often as we came to the passage where God is 
the church supplicated in behalf of ' all sick persons and young 
service children ' . . . I wept in secret ; and, raising my 

streaming eyes to the upper windows of the galleries, saw, on 
days when the sun was shining, a spectacle as aft'ecting as ever 
prophet can have beheld. The sides of the windows were rich 
with storied glass : . . . there were the apostles that had 
trampled upon earth. . . . There were the martyrs that had 
borne witness to the truth through flames. . . . There were 
the saints who had glorified God by meek submission to His 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY xi 

will. And all the time ... I saw through the wide central 
Held of the window . . . white fleecy clouds sailing over the 
azure depths of the sky : were it but a fragment or a hint of 
such a cloud, immediately under the flash of my sorrow-haunted 
eye, it grew and shaped itself into visions of beds with white 
lawny curtains ; and in the bed lay sick children ; . . . God, 
for some mysterious reason, could not suddenly release them 
from pain ; but he suffered the beds, as it seemed, slowly to 
rise through the clouds ; slowly the beds ascended into the 
chambers of the air ; slowly, also, his arms descended from the 
heavens, that he and his young children, whom in Palestine, 
once and forever, he had blessed, though they must pass slowly 
through the dreadful chasm of separation, might yet meet the 
sooner. These visions needed not that any sound should speak 
to me, or music mould my feelings. The hint from the litany, 
the fragment from the clouds, — these and the storied windows 
were sufficient." 

But there is a suggestion in De Quincey's enumeration of his 
blessings of the over-shadowing presence of the " horrid pugi- 
listic brother." And thankful, indeed, we are to this „ 

' £zporl- 

genius of mischief for those pranks that give a touch enceswlth 
of real child-life to their boyhood days at Greenhay. Ws brother 
The chapter in the Aiitobiof/rajjhic Sketches which describes 
his escapades is significantly called Introduction to the World 
of Strife. The instigator of the strife, William by name, was, 
in short, a magnetic bully, whom the shrinking Thomas could 
neither keep pace with nor desert. He has described him, 
"fertile as Robinson Crusoe, as full of quarrel as it is possible 
to imagine ; who, in default of any other opponent, would have 
fastened upon his own shadow for presuming to run before him 
when going westwards in the morning. . . . Books he detested 
one and all, except such as he happened to write himself." One 
of these was Hoxv to raise a ghost, and xvhen you 've got him 
down houi to keep him down. William's greatest praise for his 
younger brother was, " You 're honest ; you 're willing, though 
lazy ; you would pull if yon had the strength of a flea ; and, 
though a monstrous coward, you don't run away." But in his 
brother's contempt, Thomas confesses one solace, the " guaranty 
of an unmolested repose." Strange philosophical deduction for 
a boy of six ! nor was it wholly true ; for as a matter of fact 
there was little repose for him in the three years and a half 



XU THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE yUINCEY 

when, under his brother's generalship, he fought daily battles 
with the Manchester factory boys ; or listened with his sisters 
and friends in the nursery, night after night, to the lectures on 
physics and chemistry and the occult sciences as delivered by 
the versatile William. Hour by hour he would profoundly 
explain the simple art of flying, always demonstrating from a 
height downward, to be reproached by the literal sister who 
complained that he never flew back again ! " How to trans- 
late right reverend gentlemen to the moon " was the subject of 
a favorite lecture. Reading of his supercilious talks to these 
younger children crouching before him " in an agony of re- 
spect," one comes with positive joy upon De Quincey's account 
of a mutiny among the audience. " William had happened to 
say what was no unusual thing with him, that he flattered 
himself that he had made the point under discussion tolerably 
clear, — ' clear,' he added, bowing round the half-circle of us, tlie 
audience, ' to the meanest of capacities.' Upon which, a voice, 
a female voice, — but whose voice in the tumult that followed 
I did not distinguish, — retorted, ' No, you have n't ; it 's dark 
as sin ; ' and then, without a moment's interval, a second voice 
exclaimed, 'Dark as night;' then came my young brother's 
insurrectionary yell, ' Dark as midnight ; ' then another female 
voice chimed in melodiously, ' Dark as pitch ; ' and so the peal 
continued to come round like a catch, the whole being so well 
concerted, and the rolling fire so well sustained that it was im- 
possible to make head against it ; whilst the abruptness of the 
interruption gave to it the protecting character of an oral ' round 
robin,' it being impossible to challenge any one in particular as 
ringleader." This intellectual bullying did De Quincey little 
harm ; exquisite suflering, however, he did endure from the 
war with the factory boys. These young roughs started the feud 
by jeering at the aristocratic trousers and Hessian boots of the 
De Quincey boys. The challenge in their first derisive cry of 
" Boots, boots ! " was accepted by William, who proudly halted 
on the bridge which connected Greenhay with INIanchester, and 
bade the offender draw near that he might "give his flesh to 
the fowls of the air." The war began. Thomas, as younger 
brother, was convinced that he owed military allegiance to AVil- 
liam. They fought usually twice a day, and the two aristocrats 
commonly ended the battle by running away. Every night, 
however, William insisted on their singing a Te Deum, for 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS 1)E QUINCEY xiii 

their supposed victory, — a proceeding at which his brother's 
more sensitive conscience was troubled. With real physical and 
mental agony the days came round, the young lieutenant always 
being possessed by a deadly depression whenever he approached 
what had become to him veritably a " Bridge of Sighs," and 
often innocently falling into treason against his brother and being 
threatened with hanging at the next tree ; from which threat, 
however, with a literalness that must have taxed the patience 
of the high-spirited general, he used in his bolder moments to 
defend himself with the objection that there were *' no trees in 
Oxford Street." Furthermore, a second calamity was to fall 
upon Thomas from the fertile brain of his brother, whose "Napo- 
leonic ambition " compelled his younger brother to govern an 
imaginary kingdom. Gombroon, simply that King William might 
invade it and conquer it at will. The lowest grade of civiliza- 
tion was allotted to the Gombroonians, and their young king 
was held accountable for all their degradations. Now he lived 
" forever under the terror of two separate wars in two separate 
worlds ; one against the factory boys in a real world of flesh 
and blood, of stones and brickbats, of flight and pursuit ; the 
other in a world purely aerial, where all the combats and the 
sufi'erings were absolute moonshine." An armistice, however, was 
finally efi'ected with the factory people ; and before trouble could 
again arise, William, who had shown some skill in drawing, was 
sent away to study with a London landscape painter of note. 
There he died before he was sixteen, so the two brothers never 
met again. 

Strongest among the half-concealed tastes of De Quincey's 
childhood were a love of books and a love of music. Love of 
Unfortunately the home library could but poorly books 
satisfy the boy. Cowper and Johnson were recommended by 
his father, but were not so much appreciated as Mrs. Barbauld 
and The Arabian Nights. He and his sister were original 
critics to the extent of deciding, contrary to all more authori- 
tative opinion, that Slnbad and Aladdin Avere not the best of 
the tales, but the worst, taking this somewhat high ground for 
two young literati whose " combined ages made no more than 
a baker's dozen," — that the former " lacked unity of form, 
and the latter, movement in the narrative." And yet nothing 
charmed the lad so much as the mysticism of Aladdin. That 
the magician of the lamp, applying his ear to the earth, should 



XIV THK LIFE OF THOiMAS DE (,)UIXCEY 

know among millions of footsteps tlie peculiar tread of the bo}' 
Aladdin, playing in the streets of Bagdad six thousand miles 
away, was tilled for him with " something of dark sublimity." 
His first imjiression of the morally sublime in literature he at- 
tributes to these two lines from Plisedrus : 

"Aesopo statiiain ingenlem posuere Attici; 
ServuiiKiue collocariint eterna in basi." i 

For the appeal of their sound lie used to linger over the words, 
" Belshazzar, the king, made a great feast to a thousand of his 
lords" (Daniel v. 1), and the opening lines of Macbefh : — 

" When," — " but watch," he says, " what an emphasis of 
thunder dwells upon that word ' when,' " — 

"When shall wu three meet again, 
In thunder, lightning, or in rain ?" 

The only other bit of reading to which I)e Quincey makes 
reference at this time is a story in a volume written by the 
good Dr. Percival, their family physician at Greenhay, a senti- 
mental tale of a young private who avenged an insult given by 
a commanding officer by saving that superior's honor on the 
battlefield. As De Quincey says, it is " not much of a story, 
which will collapse into nothing at all, unless you yourself are 
able to dilate it by expansive synii)atliy with its sentiment." 
But it added one to his boyish search for the sublime. 

Of his passion for music he writes, '^ I loved unspeakably 
the grand and varied system of chanting in the Romish and 
love English churches. And, looking back at this day 

mnslo to the ineffable benefits which I derived from the 

church of my childhood, I account among the very greatest 
those which reached me through the various chants connected 
with the '0 Jubilate,' the ' JNIagnificat,' the ' Te Deura ' and 
the ' Benedicite.' Through these chants it was that the sorrow 
which laid waste my infancy, and the devotion which nature 
had made a necessity of my being, were profoundly interfused." 

Four years after the death of De Quincey's father, in 1796, 
The Bath ^''^^ establishment at Greenhay was broken up and 
Grammar the family moved to Bath. Thomas, now in his 
School. twelfth year, and his younger brotlier, the boy of 

fragile beauty and winning sweetness to whom a most 
poetic chapter in the Autobiof/rap/nj is devoted, were sent to 

1 "A colossal statue did the Athenians raise to ^Esop; 

And a poor Pariah slave thry plnnip.l iip.m an tverlasting pedestal." 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY XV 

the Grammar School, of which an accomplished classical scholar, 
Mr. Morgan, was the head. De Quincey entered proficient in 
Latin, but below the standard in Greek. Under Dr. Morgan, 
however, his love of the Greek carried him on so rapidly that 
" at thirteen," he writes, " I wrote Greek with ease, and at fif- 
teen my command of that language was so great that I could 
converse fluently, an accomplishment owing to the practice of 
daily reading off the newspapers into the best Greek I could 
furnish extempore." "That boy," said one of his masters, 
calling the attention of a stranger to him, " that boy could 
harangue an Athenian mob better than you or I could address 
an English one." But a greater triumph from the first attended 
De Quincey's Latin verses. The head-master, disappointed in 
the scholarship of his oldest class, used to read and praise the 
translations of the little lad in the lower form. At first, De 
Quincoy basked deliciously in the sunshine of such approbation 
and distinction ; but soon he was to feel the sharp tooth of 
envy. One of the older ])oys strode up to him one day in the 
playground, dealt him an introductory blow upon the shoulder, 
asked him '' what the devil ho meant by bolting out of the 
course and annoying other people in that manner," and told 
him to see to it in the future that he "wrote worse." On the 
next sending iip of verses to the master, De Quincey " double- 
shotted " his guns, and double applause descended upon him. 
Then again his tormentor appeared to him : " You little devil, 
so you call this writing your worst ? " " No, I call it writing 
my best," was the sturdy answer. The struggle went on for a 
year, and " all the while," De Quincey says, " for a word 
spoken with kindness how readily I would have resigned the 
peacock's feather in my hat as the merest of baubles." 

The cause of his removal from the school was a mere acci- 
dent, described in a boyish letter to his sister. " This day, as 
we Avere up saying,^ Mr. M. was called out, and Lessons at 
so forsooth little, or rather bifj Mounseei' Collins home, 1797 
naust jump into the desk. It happened that little Harman 
wanted his hat, which hung up above Collin.s's head. Wilbra- 
ham asked for the cane to reach it him, which Collins refused, 
and at the same time to give a little strength to his refusal and 
to enforce his authority as a master, he endeavored to hit him 
on the shoulder (as he says) ; but how shall I relate the sequel ? 

1 Reciting. 



XVI THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

On poor Ego did it fall. Say, Muse, what could inspire the 
cane with such a direful purpose ? But not on my shoulder, 
but on my pate it fell, — unhappy pate, worthy of a better 
fate ! " The boy was carried at once to his mother's house at 
Bath, and the blow seemed serious for some time. While the 
aching head was healing, his mother read to him such soothing 
works as Milner's Church History, Johnson's Rambler, a 
translation of Ariosto and Tasso, and Paradise Lost ! The 
choice was characteristic of the severe intellect of the mother ; 
and the pleasure with which it was accepted, of the strange ap- 
preciation of the boy. Several tutors were engaged before he 
was put back to school again, and of a certain Frenchman the 
following story was recalled years after by De Quincey's own 
daughter. It is worth quoting inasmuch as it shows the dreamy, 
bookish lad in a new and not unpleasing light. " My grand- 
mother," says Miss De Quincey, " was an attractive-looking and 
agreeable woman ; and this Frenchman — a man of considerable 
rank and fortune — had a great business in looking after the 
unruly children, who were all the worse for finding out that he 
had wanted to marry their mother. Instead of doing their les- 
sons, the two younger brothers and my father took seats at the 
window, and employed their time in making faces at an old 
lady who lived opposite. The poor French gentleman, utterly 
unable to teach or keep order, was constantly to be heard say- 
ing, ' Now, Monsieur Tomma, oh, do be parsuaded ! Oh, do be 
parsuaded.' At length the old lady complained. My grand- 
mother then represented the matter in its true light, and sud- 
denly Monsieur Tomma was ' parsuaded ' to go over and apolo- 
gize to their neighbor, who was somewhat surprised to receive 
a call from the little wretch who had annoyed her, but who 
had made such a handsome apology that she asked him to sit 
down, and he at once entered into conversation with her. She 
afterwards spoke of him to many people, saying that he was 
the cleverest and nicest little boy she ever saw. The tutor went 
back to France, but not as Monsieur Tomma's stepfather." 
Possibly to put an end to such pranks as these, De Quincey 

was next sent to a school at Winkfield whose rigid 
Wlnklield Evangelicalism recommended it to his mother. No- 
sohool, thing so well describes the place the boy made for 

himself there as these lines written by one of his 
schoolfellows, Thomas Greenfield. 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY XVll 

"What deep, sad yearnings in my bosom swelled 
As — tlirice ten years elapsed, — I once beheld, 
Winkfield, thy home)}' scene, so early known, 
The schoolroom, play around, silent now and lone ! 
Thyself how changed! a pensive pilgrim gray. 
Where oft the schoolboy rushed from task to play! 
'Twas there, De Quincey (not obscure the name. 
Linked with bright Coleridge, and with opium's fame), 
You kindly solved each question I might ask 
In Virgil's, Ovid's loved though painful task. 
So fine your genius, and so bland your mood, 
Amidst a horde of savages so rude, 
A being of superior mould you seemed. 
And, like an angel, mixed with mortals, beamed. 
Tutored bj' your Homeric mind's command, 
We marched a Grecian and a Trojan band; 
Achilles, Ajax, Diomede, arrayed 
With spear and shield by Farmer Hillman made. 
Ulvsses marked yourself, the master mind; 
While in 3'our beauteous brother Paris shined. 
Old Spencer's self approved the classic wile. 
And wreathed his solemn visage to a smile. 
When Ames's school had challenged Spencer's boys. 
Still rings in memory's ear the applauding noise 
That hailed your bold response, rehearsed aloud 
From the school-table to the stripling crowd, 
Hurling 'retorted scorn ' in martial numbers proud. 
The prize proposed to schools, and well bestowed 
On your neat version of Horatiau ode, 
For little Winkfield won unlooked-for fame, 
And blazoned at fourteen De Quincey's name." 

The " bold response " referred to was De Quincey's answer 
in verse to a challenge from a neighboring school : — 

"Since Ames's skinny school has dared 
To challenge Spencer's bo3's. 
We thus to them bold answer give 
To prove ourselves 'no toys.' 
Full thirty hardy boys we are, 
As brave as e'er was known; 
AVe will nor threats nor dangers mind 
To make you change your tone." 

So, as well as a dreamer, the lad was a genuine boy at times, 
full of fun and good spirits. 

At the end of a year De Quincey left Winkfield to accept the 
invitation of a young friend, Lord Westport, son of the Irish 
Earl of Altaraont, and grandson of the celebrated ^ Monday 
Lord Howe, to join him in a long holiday at his fa- in London, 
ther's estate in West Ireland. The chapter in the Auto- ^^^^ 
biographical Notes devoted to this visit is wonderful reading. 



xviii THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

" Already at three stages' distance (say forty miles from London) 
upon some of the greatest roads, the dim presentiment of some 
vast capital reaches you obscurely and like a misgiving. . . . 
Arriving at the last station for changing horses, . . . you no 
longer think (as in other places) of naming the next stage ; 
nobody says, on pulling up, ' Horses on to London,' — that 
would sound ludicrous ; one mighty idea broods over all minds, 
making it impossible to suppose any other destination." With 
three hours to see the city, the boys tossed up pennies to decide 
whether they would spend that time in Westminster or St. 
Paul's. Heads for Westminster coming up, neither was satis- 
fied ; so, boy-like, they flipped for better luck, and fate gave 
them the cathedral. 

De Quincey's record of their days at Eton shows in strange 
alternation the boy and the philosopher. He yawns with a 
child's weariness at a royal party, while the music and dancing 
seem to him '' the very grandest form of passionate sadness ; " 
he has the young hero-worshipper's delight at seeing all the 
great men and women who had been only names to him, but 
reflects upon the perfunctory and artificial hauteur which these 
people are bound to assume to one another ; then he and Lord 
Westport, in the face of this ceremonious merry-making, amuse 
themselves by talking " Ziph," querying, " Shagall wege gogo 
agawagay igin agan hourgour? " * And once outside they throw 
up their hats and huzzah for pleasure in their recovered liberty. 

From Eton, by Holyhead, they journeyed to Ireland. Those 
were the interesting days when the bill for the union with 
England had just passed the Irish Parliament. Under the con- 
HoUdavs ^^'^^ °^ Lord Altamont, De Quincey could enjoy all 
In Ireland, the spectacles of that crisis ; and his letters written 
1800 home show a grasp of the significance of what he 

saw. At Lord Westport's country home in Connaught, the wild 
scenery, the " Tartan-like stables," with their trick ponies and 
tricky grooms, the "old libraries, old butlers, and old customs, 
that seemed all alike to belong to the era of Cromwell," gave 
him all he could think of. 

Returning from their Irish tour, the two friends parted at 
Birmingham, young W^estport going on to Oxford and De Quin- 
cey starting for Laxton in Northamptonshire. Here he was to visit 

1 Ziph was a secret language made by preceding every vowel in a word by a 
_y with the vowel before it: i. e., an = agan and in = igin. 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY XIX 

Lady Carbery, an old friend of his mother's, who used to look 
upon hira when an invalid child as " a sort of a superior yj^^^ ^^ 
toy, a toy that could breathe and talk." The setting Laxton, 
at Lady Carbery's seemed an ideal one for developing ^^^^ 
the boy's intellectual powers. The old library, stretching through 
seven rooms, with its careful classifications of books covering almost 
the entire literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 
was a joy to him. " Here," he said, " I can pursue a subject, once I 
have started it." Lady Carbery, as intellectual as she was beauti- 
ful, had begun a systematic study of theology, but, finding her- 
self handicapped by her ignorance of Greek, she installed her 
youthful visitor as tutor. Greek Testaments and lexicons were 
ordered, and soon the two, a pretty picture side by side, were 
hard at work. Passing through the park gate at Laxton at hia 
departure, De Quincey made this grateful tribute to his hostess : 
" I had seen and become familiarly acquainted with a young 
man who had in a manner died to every object round him, had 
died an intellectual death, and suddenly been called back to life 
and real happiness, — had been in effect raised from the dead by the 
accident of meeting a congenial female companion." And, with 
prophetic foresight, he added, "Was it not likely enough that I 
was rushing forward to court and woo some frantic mode of 
evading an endurance that by patience might have been borne?" 
The " endurance " to be borne was three years of schooling 
in Manchester. This school was proposed by his guardians be- 
cause it was possible for a student of good standing 
there to Avin an annuity of some £50 for the seven Chester 
years at Oxford. " When first I entered," De Quin- school, 
cey writes, " I remember that we read Sophocles ; and 
it was a constant matter of triumph to us, the learned triumvirate 
of the first form, to see our 'Archididasculos ' (as he loved to be 
called) conning our regular lesson before we went up, and lay- 
ing a regular train, with lexicon and grammar, for blowing up 
and blasting (as it were) any difficulties he found in the cho- 
ruses ; whilst we never condescended to open our books until 
the moment of going up, and were generally employed in writ- 
ing epigrams on his wig." The contempt he felt for this ped- 
ant and his uncongenial schoolfellows, sons of artisans and 
even of servants, and his hatred of the town of Manchester 
itself, " all mud below and smoke above," made his life here 
miserable. There were bright spots, however ; Lady Carbery 



XX THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

came to town for a number of months in the winter and taught 
him her newly acquired Hebrew in conscientious exchange for 
the old Greek lessons; a gentle old Swedenborgian divine loved 
the boy and gave him freely of his books and himself ; and 
De Quincey was also introduced to the Liverpool Literary Co- 
terie, of whom Dr. Carrie, the biographer of Burns, was then 
a member. The boy's vanity may well have been flattered to 
find himself admitted to this circle, especially when some of 
them arranged to meet him daily at sunrise that he might 
guide them through ^5ilschylus. But tlie school he could not 
endure. A letter to his mother, asking that lie might be sent 
up to Oxford, for which he was already prepared, ended with 
this argument : '•' I ask whether a person can be happy, or 
even simply easy, who is in a situation which deprives him of 
health, of societi/, of amMsement, of liberty, of congeniality 
of j^'ii^'stiits ? " But his reasoning failed to produce any im- 
pression. So he resolved to take matters into his own hands 
and run away on his seventeenth birthday. Lady Carbery, not 
dreaming the purpose for which he wanted it, lent him £10, 
and one morning he was early upon the road to Chester, with a 
small bundle of clothes under his arm and his Euripides in his 
pocket. 

His longing was to go to the English Lakes and see Words- 
worth ; but a sense of duty sent him first to his mother's home 
Wanderings "^ Chester. Her decorous judgment, he says, looked 
In Wales, upon his sudden appearance there ''much as she 
^^°^ would have done at the opening of the seventh seal 

in Revelation.'^ But an uncle visiting them at the time sug- 
gested that she give the boy a guinea a week to travel and 
enjoy himself. Accordingly, from June to November of this 
year, 1802, he wanders about Korth Wales, sometimes bivouac- 
ing on the hills at night to make his three shillings a day go 
farther than it could at the inns, and once lodging for three 
weeks in a solitary farmhouse, subsisting on berries. Like 
Coleridge in the army, he sometimes earned a little money by 
writing a business letter for an illiterate farmer, or, what was 
more to his liking, a love-letter for the daughter who wondered 
at the ease Avith which he seemed to divine and express her 
thoughts. Finally, however, finding himself almost penniless, 
for he had not chosen to let those at home always know where 
to send his allowance^ he resolved to go to London, and there 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUIXCEY xxi 

liorrow capital from the Jewish money-lenders on his ''expec- 
tations." 

So, late in November, 1802, De Quincey opens negotiations 
with one Dell, in Greek Street, London. That house and all 
connected with it are familiar to readers of The Con- vaerancv 
fe.ssions, for the sufferings De Quincey endured in in London, 
those days were the immediate cause of his recourse ^^^^ 
to opium. Dell's policy was to keep his petitioners waiting ; 
])e Quincey's money dwindled fast. Finally, he was glad to 
give up his own lodgings and accept the shelter of one of the 
rooms in Dell's business house, sharing it with a wretched, 
starved child, who welcomed him with joy as a protector 
against the rats who had been her nightly terror. During busi- 
ness hours when he felt himself in the way, he loitered in the 
parks or walked the streets. Here he met poor "Ann " of 
Oxford Street, for whom he has made a name in literature. 
She it was who, finding him unconscious upon a doorstep, 
spent her last sixpence to save him from death. In this ex- 
tremity De Quincey made one attempt to get help from his 
former friends ; he went to Eton to ask Lord Westport to go 
security for him in the loan he was trying to negotiate. But 
his friend was in Oxford, so the visit availed nothing. On his 
return to London, Ann had disappeared and no efforts could 
find her. " This," he says, " amongst such troubles as most 
)iien meet with in this life, has been my heaviest affliction." 
Soon, it seems, De Quincey was discovered by some friend, and 
persuaded to go back to his mother at Chester. The marks of 
his London experience, however, had been imprinted upon his 
face. Carlyle, long afterward, saw the traces and said, " Ec- 
covi ! look at him ! this child has been in Hell ! " In the 
autumn of 1803, De Quincey accepted the meagre off"er made 
by his guardians of £100 a year, and started for Oxford. 

There are few incidents of his university life to tell. More 
and more De Quincey lived within himself, holding little in- 
tercourse with students or tutors. Largely because it Oxford, 
still kept the full cathedral service, he first chose to 1803-1808 
become a member of Christ College ; but, barred from that be- 
cause he had not put his name on the waiting list, he entered 
Worcester, — evidently because it demanded so little "caution 
money." ^ He took good rooms for himself, but never gave nor 
1 Money deposited by the students as a guaranty tliat tlieir bills would be paid. 



xxii THE LIFK OF THOMAS DE QUINCEV 

accepted an invitation during his tirst years. If he met a tutor 
in the quadrangle, three sentences might pass between them, two 
to the credit of the tutor. He says, " While there, I compute 
that I did not utter one hundred words for two years." It was 
then that he started upon a systematic study of English Litera- 
ture, fastening his strongest enthusiasm upon the contemporar}' 
poets. " That appreciation of Wordsworth," he says, " which 
it has taken full thirty years to establish amongst the public, 
I had already made." In 1803 he went to Westmoreland, but 
shyness drove him back before he had actually seen Words- 
worth. The latter, however, answered his letters in a tone that 
indicated that he would be glad to know his young admirer. 
Another fact of De Quincey's college days is of importance. It 
was then that he began the use of opium, as a palliative for the 
neuralgia contracted in his vagrant days in Whales and London. 
" Happiness," he says, " I now found could be bought for a 
penny, and carried in the waistcoat pocket." At this time, 
however, he used the drug only moderately. At the end of his 
course, Dr. Greenough, one of the examiners, said to a member 
of Worcester, " You have sent us the cleverest man I have ever 
met with; if his viva voce examination to-morrow corresponds 
with what he has done to-day, he will carry everything before 
him." But for some strange whim, — an offence taken against 
the examiners, or a distrust of his own presence of mind in 
oral answering, — he suddenly disappeared from Oxford with- 
out his degree. 

The years from 1807 to 1812 were to bring De Quincey, in 
a measure, out of his solitude and into contact with men whose 
names had long been as magnets to him. He goes to London 
Meetings with some evident intention of studying for the bar, 
■with con- and there meets Charles Lamb. Then he makes 
writers hurried visits to his mother's country home in Somer- 
1808-1812 setshire, and is a guest at Hannah More's, where he 
hears from Mrs. Siddons her fascinating recollections of Dr. 
-lohnson and David Garrick. Hearing in the summer of 1807 
that Coleridge also is in Somersetshire, he goes deliberately in 
search of the great man. He finds him standing in a gateway, 
lost in abstraction, and knows him at once by his soft, dreamy 
eyes. Aroused from his reverie, however, Coleridge is all gra- 
ciousness. A few weeks later De Quincey finds that he can do 
a service for this new-found friend by conducting Mrs. Cole- 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE yUIXCEY xxiii 

ridge and her children to Keswick, where they expect to live 
with Southey. They plan to visit Wordsworth at Grasmere on 
the way, so De Quincey is knight-eager to undertake the jour- 
ney which will hring the other members of the Lake School 
within his reach. His own words best describe his entrance 
into Wordsworth's cottage : " Through the little gate I passed 
forward ; ten steps beyond it lay the principal door of the house. 
To this, no longer clearly conscious of my own feelings, I pressed 
on rapidly. I heard a step, a voice, and, like a flash of light- 
ning, I saw the figure emerge of a tallish man, who held out 
his hand, and saluted me with most cordial expressions of wel- 
come." Then followed the lady of "Egyptian brown," Doro- 
thy Wordsworth, afterwards the life-long friend of the De 
Quinceys, A few days later he reached Southey's door, and 
could count the whole of the Lake School among his acquaint- 
ances. Many incidents, personal and interesting, could be told 
of his friendships with these men : how he, starving not so long 
ago in London, now insisted on sending an anonymous gift of 
£300 to Coleridge, temporarily in difficulties ; how he attended 
those wonderful evening gatherings in Coleridge's London cham- 
bers when Lamb, Hazlitt, and Godwin, too, made their way up 
the rickety stairs ; how he spent weeks in putting a pamphlet 
of Wordsworth's through the press ; and how, at the solicitation 
of the Wordsworths, he decided to take up his abode in their 
old cottage in Grasmere. One is amused at Miss Wordsworth's 
zeal in selecting his carpets and curtains, and by her argument 
for extravagantly buying mahogany furniture instead of deal, 
because "no wood sells so well at second-hand as mahogany." 

In 1809 the Wordsworths moved to their new home at 
Allan Bank, and De Quincey, taking possession of " the cottage 
immortal," linked his name with the Lake School. LUejt 
Here, in communion with nature, in the delights of Grasmere, 
romping with the Wordsworth children, who adored 1809-1816 
him as " Kinsey," in the quiet evenings with his books, and in 
keen intellectual intercourse with his friends, he found what he 
called " poetic refinement in his surroundings." There Avere 
some annoyances, of course, — as when Wordsworth cut the 
pages in a precious volume of Burke with a knife hastily picked 
up from the tea-table and covered with butter ; or when Cole- 
ridge, having borrowed and transported to his house some five 
hundred of De Quincey's books, carefully wrote in them all 



XXIV THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINGEY 

Thomas de Quincey, Esquire, causing the owner some hours of 
labor in erasing the suffix later. Sorrow came, as well, in the 
death of little Catherine Wordsworth, whom De Quincey mourned 
with a grief as abandoned and touching as it was unusual. A 
strong breath of life blew in upon him in the person of John 
Wilson, later to be known as Christopher North, whom Words- 
worth brought to De Quincey's cottage. The two became close 
companions, and a strange pair they must have looked, tramp- 
ing the hills together : De Quincey, quick, agile, nervous, slip- 
ping and sliding along ; Wilson, tall, robust, striding over the 
ground like a giant. It is a tonic to read of the walks they 
took. 

Perhaps the most memorable winter of De Quincey's life, in 
some respects, was that of 1814-1815, which he spent with Wil- 
. , . son in Edinburgh. Of Scott and Jeffrey he seemed 

in Edln- to have seen little ; but there was a younger and a 
burgh, brilliant set tliere to welcome him, — Sir William 

Hamilton, William Allan, the painter, Robert Gillies 
with his choice bits of literary gossip, Lockhart, and others who 
were all but dazzled by the boyish genius who had come among 
them to speak the last word in every discussion, and to cap every 
quotation or allusion with one still better. Mr. Gillies's memory 
of him is illuminating: ''His voice was extraordinary : it came 
as if from dreamland ; but it was the most musical and impres- 
sive of voices. In convivial life, what then seemed to me the 
most remarkable trait of De Quincey's character was the power 
he possessed of easily changing the tone of ordinary thought 
and conversation into that of his own dreamland, till his audi- 
tors, in wonder, found themselves moving pleasantly along with 
him in a sphere of which they might have heard and read, per- 
haps, but which had ever appeared to them inaccessible and far, 
far away ! " 

In 1816, in Grasmere, De Quincey married Margaret Simpson, 
the daughter of a Westmoreland farmer. For a year he had 
Marriage practically conquered his habit of taking opium in 
1816 large quantities, and, witli the daily amount reduced 

from three hundred and forty to forty grains, he felt justified in 
undertaking the support and protection of a bride of eighteen. All 
of his tributes to her in writing are most devoted and tender ; 
but the following from the pen of their daughter gives, perhaps, 
the best impression of her personality. " Delicate health and 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY xxv 

family cares made her early withdraw from society, but she 
seems to have had a powerful fascination for the few friends 
she admitted to intimacy, from an old charwoman who used to 
threaten us, as though it were guilt on our part, ' Ye '11 ne'er be 
the gallant woman ye're mither was,' to a friend who had seen 
society in all the principal cities of Europe, and who, with no 
reason for exaggeration, told us he had never seen a more gra- 
cious or a more beautiful lady than our mother." By the middle 
of the year 1817, however, De Quincey is again under the power 
of the drug ; his will utterly deserts him ; letters lie unanswered 
on his table for months ; two great literary projects are put aside 
unfinished ; and his days and nights are tormented by the hor- 
rors of the opium dreams. Little need to describe here what he 
has made so graphic in the pages of the Cotifessions and Sus- 
jjiria de Profundis. 

At the end of this year of inactivity it became urgent that he 
should arouse his energies enough, at least, to supply the im- 
mediate needs of his family. The first opportunity Editorship 
that presented itself was the editorship of the West- o*West- 
inoreland Gazette. Hardly a safe man to trust with Gazette 
work that demanded steady, prompt business methods, 1817 
but, stationing an assistant in Kendal to do the scrub work, and 
borrowing £500 on the prospects of his new position, he feels 
"reestablished for life." The columns of the Gazette during 
his rdgime must have contained some of the best of English wit, 
imagination, speculation, and philosophy ; but this was hardly 
the demand of the country people who were its subscribers. So 
it is no surprise to find the editorship soon relinquished. For- 
tunately, however, De Quincey has conceived " a liking for copy 
and printer's proof " strong enough to carry him to London, 
where he appears in 1821 as a magazine writer. 

The power among the periodicals in those days was the 
London Magazine. Keats had written for its early numbers ; 
"Elia" was still contributing his charming essays; Thomas 
Hood was an assistant editor; and, looking over its Confessions 
old volumes, one may alight upon the familiar title °^^^ 
of many a piece which is now a classic. In September, Eater, 1821 
1821, appeared some twenty pages, entitled Confes- 
sions of an Opium-Eater: being an Extract from the Life 
of a Scholar. In October the second number Avas printed, 
and in December was announced the promise of a third part. 



XXVI THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

Impatient subscribers waited a year for the promise to fulfil 
itself, solacing themselves comfortably in the meanvphile with 
LainVs Dissertation on Roast Pig. Finally the magazine 
brought out the Confessions in a separate volume, from which 
the author's name was still withheld. Interest, wonder, and 
praise were provoked on every side, as well as curious specula- 
tions as to the truthfulness of the experiences related. In short, 
all that was written in enthusiasm about the Confessions would 
make a far larger volume than the w^ork itself. 

From 1822 until 1825, De Quincey's name appeared as a 
regular monthly contributor to the London Magazine and a 
frequent writer for Knighfs Quarterig, upon the stati' of 
which were Macaulay and Praed. In everything he 
tions to liad written in these four years, it was clearly evident 
periodicals, that a new voice was speaking in English literature. 

1822-182B 1 o o 

This truth was generously acknowledged by "Wilson's 
introduction of the conversation of the Opium-Eater into his 
Nodes Anihrosianae. Says the shepherd : " Hech, sirs, yon 
bit opium tract 's a desperate interesting confession. It 's per- 
fectly dreadfu', yon pouring in upon you o' oriental eemagery. 
Six thousand drops o' lowdnam ! It 's as muckle, I fancy, as a 
bottle of whisky. I tried the experiment mysel', after reading 
the wee, wud, wicked wark, wi' five hunner drops, and I couped 
ower and continued in ae snore frae Monday night till Friday 
morning. But I had naething tae confess; at least naething 
that wud gang into words." North accounts for the "dam- 
nation of the London Magazine by the fact that all other 
contributors looked such ninnies beside De Quincey, that the 
public burst out a-laughing in the poor magazine's face. Then 
one and all of them began mimicking our friend, and pretended 
to be opium-eaters. Now, the effect of the poppy upon the 
puppy is most offensive to the bystanders." 

These years of literary success, however, were dearly bought. 
They saw all the sufferings of De Quincey's second breaking 
away from the laudanum, and a third yielding to its power. 
Difficulties ^^ ^^'^^ obliged to be separated from his family, they 
of the years in Grasmere, and he in London, so homesick that he 
1825-1830 ^jj^.g ^jp ijjj, j,^jiy ■\vall^ in Hyde Park and Kensington 

Gardens "from the misery of seeing children in multitudes," he 
said, "that too forcibly recalled my own." Pecuniary embar- 
rassments, also, were so great that he seems to be almost hiding 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY XXVU 

from his creditors ; he sends to Professor Wilson two addresses 
which would reach him, adding the warning, " The latter may- 
be the better, because I would rather not be tracked too precisely 
at present." Thereupon Wilson kindly remarks that De Quincey 
would be more harrassed by a debt of £5 than many another 
man by one of JSIOO. His warmest friends in those days were 
Charles and Mary Lamb, who sought out the "fantastical duke 
of dark corners " and brought him to the seclusion of their 
own fireside. Young Hood, too, found it a pleasure to go to 
De Quincey's rooms to dun him for copy. "There I have found 
him," he says, "at home, quite at home, in the midst of a 
German Ocean of Literature in a storm, : — flooding all the floor, 
the table and the chairs — billows of books, tossing, tumbling, 
surging open, — and on such occasions I have willingly listened 
by the hour, whilst the Philosopher, standing, with his eyes 
fixed on the side of the room, seemed to be less speaking than 
reading from a handwriting on the wall." Hazlitt walked with 
him by the hour through the streets of London in lively dis- 
cussion. AH counted it good fortune to meet him. And yet 
De Quincey never played the literary lion, but was to the end 
the incurable recluse. Wilson's efforts on his behalf resulted 
in Blackwood^ s publishing a series of his articles, — among them, 
On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts. These, with 
occasional contributions to the Edinburgh Literary Gazette, re- 
lieved his embarrassments for a while. It was about this time 
that Carlyle first met De Quincey. An invitation to visit him 
and Mrs. Carlyle in Craigenputtock soon followed. " Your pre- 
sence at this fireside," Carlyle writes, "will diffuse no ordinary- 
gladness over all members of the household. . . . Would you 
come hither to be king over us, then indeed Ave had made a fair 
beginning, and the Bor/ School might snap its fingers at the 
Lake School.^' In 1830, De Quincey having taken up new 
engagements in Edinburgh, it was decided, upon the energetic 
advice of Miss Wordsworth, to save the expenses of two estab- 
lishments, and, much as he and his family regretted leaving 
Grasmere, to remove to Edinburgh. 

There, for ten years from 1830 until 1840, among all those 
brilliant writers, publishers, lawyers, and divines Lifgi^ 
tliat made Edinburgh a " modern Athens," the shy Edinburgh, 
English stranger -was the one best worth seeing and 1830-1840 
the one least seen. The literary record of those years consists 



XXVIU THE LIFE OF THOMAS I)E yUINCHV 

of contributions to Blackwood, and to Talt's Magazine, which 
published Sketches of Life and Manners from the Autobio- 
graphy of an English Opium-Eater. Again the reading world 
was astonished into pleasure, although it criticised severely those 
passages commenting so frankly upon Coleridge, recently dead, 
and upon Southey and Wordsworth, still living. Southey burst 
into flame when Carlyle mentioned De Quincey's name to him, 
and exclaimed that some one ought to go to Edinburgh and 
" thrash the little wretch." And yet praise of the Sketches far 
exceeded the praise which the world was then willing to accord 
the poets. During these years, also, De Quincey wrote for the 
Encyclopaedia Britannica the essays on Goethe, Shakespeare, 
Schiller, and Pope ; and produced his only attempt at a ro- 
mance, Klosterheim, published by Blackwood in book form in 
1832. These were the days of his strange migrations from house 
to house. One hired lodging being fairly choked by his chaotic 
accumulations of books and papers, he would, in order to leave 
them undisturbed for future reference, hire another room, and, 
when that became similarly crowded, move thence to a third.- 
So careless was he about going back to collect his scattered 
manuscripts and notes, that one almost feels there may be lurk- 
ing yet in some obscure little room in Edinburgh a second Con- 
fessions or a continuation of those Aii.tobiographic Notes which 
end with such disappointing abruptness. 

In 1835 his son William died; "my first-born child, the 
crown and glory of my life," was the burden of the father's 
Deaths of niourning. These were dark days ; two years before 
■wife and had seen the death of a younger son, Julius, and two 
cMloren years later was to come the death of the wife who^;e 
])atient affection, enduring no ordinary trials, had been his great- 
est support. De Quincey bears these sorrows, which age him 
pitifully, by fleeing to work. " I believe," he says, " that in 
the course of any one month since that unhappy day I have piit 
forth more effort in the way of thought, of research, and of com- 
position, than in any five months together selected from my pre- 
Adous life. " The eldest of the remaining children — six in all 
— seems to have possessed the practical sense of her mother ; for 
she persuades her father to take a house, Mavis Bush, near Lass- 
wade, seven miles out of Edinburgh, where they could live within 
their means, and whither De Quincey could retire occasionally 
for refreshment from his labors in the city. 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY XXIX 

From this time De Quincey's nominal home is Lasswade, — 
the little cottage which was for so many years to be the Mecca 
of literary pilgrims. There are, of course, frequent flights to 
Glasgow and Edinburgh ; and the lodgings " snowed j^jjg ^^ 
up " with books and papers are still kept in the latter Lasswade, 
city. Little by little the dark days seem to brighten ; 1840-1849 
and more content comes into his life than one could expect. 
Friends, and admirers who would be friends, are continually 
coming to pay their respects to his greatness ; and now, through 
the receipt of certain legacies, the old worry over money has 
disappeared. He writes all night, refreshing himself with large 
quantities of tea or coffee. After a short sleep in the early hours 
of the day, he goes forth for a ramble through the pleasant 
country about his home. Or he may change the order, working 
by day and rambling by night. The only blot upon the years 
is a fourth fight against opium, ending in so signal a victory that 
for the rest of his life a few drops a day meet all his need. The 
work of this quiet decade, from 1840 to 1850, consists chiefly 
of contributions to Blackvwod^s and Tait's. The former pub- 
lished Suspiria de Frofimdis in 1845, and The English Mail- 
Coach in 1849. Joan of Arc was printed in Tait's in 1847. 

In consideration of the position De Quincey had won for his 
name and work at this time, the following incident can be 
accounted for only as one of those odd things which 
were always happening to the oddest of men. In qj complete 
1849 a Mr. Hogg, the editor of an Edinburgh weekly 'works, 

1850-1859 

known as The Instructor, was called out of his office 
by the word that a gentleman wished to see him. ''Going 
down," he says, " I was confronted by a noticeably small fig- 
ure, attired in a capacious garment which was much too large, 
and which served the purpose of both under and over coat. It 
was some time before the extreme refinement of the face was 
noticed, — not indeed until the voice, gentle, clear, and silvery, 
began to be heard." It was De Quincey, offering an article for 
The Instructor, with as much modesty as if he had never yet 
penned a line that had been printed. Small need to say that 
anything which could be signed De Quincey would be accepted 
on the moment ; but the manuscript was not delivered until 
the writer had drawn a small handbrush from his pocket and 
carefully brushed it free from any dust that might have lodged 
upon it during his seven-mile walk in from Lasswade. Trivial 



XXX THE LIFE OF THOMAS HE QUINCEY 

as this occurrence may seem, it led to an important event in De 
Quincey's life. Mr. Hogg conceived the plan of publishing, 
with the author's help, a complete edition of his works. Others 
who knew De Quincey's lack of punctuality and responsibility 
in business matters had trembled to enter upon such an under- 
taking. But Mr. Hogg's enthusiasm was not to be daun'ted and 
De Quincey was all interest ; so in 1853 appeared the first 
volume of the series which was to bear the title — broad 
enough to cover all the writings of so versatile a genius — Se- 
lections Grave and Gay, from the Writings, jmblished and 
luijmhlished, of Thomas De Quincey. Already Messrs. Tick- 
nor and Fields of Boston, through the personal interest of Mr. 
Fields himself, had undertaken a similar task, thus somewhat 
justifying Hawthorne's remark : "No Englishman cares a pin 
for De Quincey ; we are ten times as good readers and critics 
as they." This publishing house relied but little upon De 
Quincey's personal help, except in one or two specific instances. 
But it was characteristic of their generosity that Mr. Fields, 
leaving the cottage at Lasswade after a visit of several days, 
put into Miss De Quincey's hands a checque for a large share 
of the profits accruing from the sale of the American edition, 
to be given to her father when the guest had vanished. The 
Edinburgh edition gained much from the author's personal 
supervision ; but it was not always easy even for him to sort, 
classify, and arrange essays scattered through forty years of 
writing into what was in the end at best not more than an 
'■' orderly jumble." And De Quincey's difficulty in handling 
liis material must often have been paralleled by Mr. Hogg's 
difficulty in managing his assistant. The letters that passed to 
the publisher's office from the house at 42 Lothian Street, 
Edinburgh, whither De Quincey had betaken himself to be 
near the press, are an amusing collection of excuses for procras- 
tination, — all most courteous, most definite as to reasons, most 
sorrowful ; but none the less exasperating when the printers 
were standing idle, waiting for their copy to appear. Xow it is 
an "attack of nervous suffering;" now a tax bill is being dis- 
puted and taking up his time ; now he writes to find out if cer- 
tain papers are " chez moi " or " chez la presse," because if at 
the latter place he would be " saved stooping to look for them 
on the floor," from which he would hardly "recover for a fort- 
night : " again, he has just set fire to his hair ; or he keeps 



THE LIFE OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY xxxi 

the boy waiting because, he writes, " I am at present greatly 
dependent upon tea ; and, as soon as I have had that, I hope 
to be a new creature." But in spite of all obstacles the edition 
of the complete works went through successfully. 

In 1857 De Quincey made a journey to Ireland to visit the 
daughter who had married and gone there to live. It was 
something of an event for him at seventy-two to journey to 
undertake the travelling, but he writes of it with Ireland, 
affectionate enthusiasm as a journey to " the shrine 
of her little holiness, Eva Margaret Craig," his first grand- 
daughter. For her and the grandson, already three years old, 
even in his busiest hours he was always preparing a tiger book, 
or a wolf book, or an elephant book. To have made the trip, 
and to have seen and known these grandchildren, was a rich 
source of happy recollections to him the rest of his days. 

The pleasantest glimpses of the last years of De Quincey's 

life are to be found in his letters to his daughters, which, as 

they married and left home, became more frequent DeQuln- 

and most intimate. It is a wonder any of them ever "^y's 

letters 
reached their destination, for he often writes them on 

a margin of paper which he mislays, or he forgets to post them. 
Or, more fortunately, he may some day " spring a mine of en- 
velopes underneath the litter of papers " upon his table, and 
then there is a daily letter for a long while. ^ These are all 
characteristic, — personal enough to be affectionate and solici- 
tous, but never an unreserved revelation of himself ; full of 
flashes of humor, graceful, fanciful ; often amusing mazes of 
transitions from private matters to dissertations upon Plato's 
doctrine of the immortality of the soul, or to a criticism of some 
recent magazine article. 

In 1859, when the last volume of the collected works was 
ready for the press, it became evident that De Quincey's life 
was drawing to a close. So patient and gentle was he Death, 
during his last illness, so courteous and so fearful of 1859 
giving trouble, that those days are remembered by his daugh- 
ters, who had been summoned to his lodgings in Edinburgh 
where the illness had overtaken him, with a solemn pleasure. 
Hiss books were always with him, and even to the last he de- 
manded his morning paper. When he slept, dreams of children 

1 Unfortunate}}' no one of these letters is short enough to quote here, but 
they may be found in vol. ii of Page's Memoirs of De Quincey. 



xxxu THE ESSAY AS A LITERARY FORM 

liaunted him, and his own boyhood he seemed to live over again. 
He had hardly ever mentioned his father to his children, but 
one of his last lucid sentences was, "There is a thing I much 
regret; that is, that I did not know more of my dear father, for 
I am sure that a juster, kinder man never lived." In the uncon- 
sciousness of his last moments his watchers heard him say, '•' My 
dear, dear mother, then I was greatly mistaken ; " and later, with 
outstretched arms, he spoke his last words, " Sister, sister ! " as 
if again he saw the vision of the little Elizabeth dead at Green- 
hay seventy years ago. 

In the appendix to the early editions of the Confessions, De 
Quincey had written, " Like other men, I have peculiar fancies 
Final about the place of my burial ; having lived chiefly in 

resung. g mountainous region, I rather cling to the conceit 
that a grave in a green churchyard, amongst the an- 
cient and solitary hills, will be a sublimer and more tranquil 
place of repose for a philosopher than any in the hideous Gol- 
gothas of London." One would like to think of him as resting 
beneath the shadows of the Westmoreland hills that he loved° 
but instead the traveller finds in the West Churchyard of Edin- 
burgh, close under the castle rock, and almost within sight of the 
statue of Professor Wilson on Prince Street, a stone inscribed : 
" Sacred to the memory of Thomas De Quincey, who was born 
at Greenhay,^ near Manchester, August 11, 1785, and died in 
Edinburgh, December 8, 1859, and of ]\[argaret, his wife, who 
died August 7, 1837." There he was to rest, as secluded and 
retired in death as he had been in life. 



THE ESSAY AS A LITERARY FORM 

If we accept the division of all prose into the four distinct 
forms of narration, description, argumentation, and exposition, 
we must classify the essay under the last head. The term 
Definition exposition, however, in its broadest sense includes all 
prose which has for its object the informing of the 
intellect rather than the arousing of the imagination or the 
logical faculty. This definition allows it to include many kinds 

1 Masson considers this a blunder common to all of De Quincey's biogra- 
phies: he himself contends that Manchester war- his birthplace. 



THE ESSAY AS A LITEKAKY FORM xxxiii 

of writing, — philosophical, religious, historical, scientific, tech- 
nical, — that can lay no claim to being literature ; and many 
exhaustive works, such as Darwin's Origin of Species, or 
Bacon's Adva7ice7)ie7it of Learning, which are expositions by 
necessity and literature by chance. These form by themselves 
one division of exposition usually known as the treatise. But 
when we speak of the essay we mean a kind of exposition, purely 
literary, which has certain distinctive characteristics of its own. 
In comparison with the treatise it is short, and its aim is not so 
much to give information as to present a point of view in regard 
to information already in common possession. The writer of the 
essay reflects upon certain knowledge which he possesses ; he 
selects the aspect that especially appeals to him ; and he then 
presents his ideas in a deliberative mood, making a definite 
attempt to please as much, or more, by his form and expres- 
sion as by the subject he has chosen. The term essay connotes 
some of this meaning: it means an attempt, a trial, a promise, 
a suggestion, and not an exhaustive treatment. Morley defines 
its sphere as " merely to open questions, to indicate points, 
to suggest cases, to sketch outlines." This, moreover, must be 
done in the way of a direct personal appeal from author to 
reader, — a principle which Bacon recognized when he wrote 
of his essays, " They come home to men's business and bosoms; " 
and also in an easy conversational tone, which was the secret of 
Addison's being able to boast, "I have brought philosophy out 
of closets to dwell in clubs and coffee houses." 

If we review the development of the English essay as a 
distinct literary type, we find that it was many centuries in 
working its way out into this brief, personal form. Beginning 
with the heavy didactic style of Hooker, Bacon, uevelop- 
Milton, Browne, Dryden, and others, it developed mentof 
along the lines of lighter treatment and more aesthetic ^^ ®^^*^ 
form until, in the essays of Addison and Steele, it approached a 
type that somewhat tallied, in length, form, expression, and pur- 
pose, with what we expect in an essay to-day. Coming down to 
the next century, that of De Quincey, we find the basis laid by 
the Spectator papers crowned by a superstructure both substan- 
tial and beautiful. This century, which we may roughly desig- 
nate as that from 1750-1850, was a period of wonderful expansion 
in prose, especially in the lines of the biographical, historical, 
philosophical, and critical essay. The new possibility of pub- 



XXXIV THE ESSAY AS A LITERARY FORM 

lishing in such magazines as the Edlahunjh Review, the Fort- 
n'ujhtly Reviexc, the London, and Blackwood's Mar/azine, 
added to the modern spirit of investigation into all departments 
of life, made this era of the periodical review one of mar- 
vellous fertility. Here we hnd the largest group of general 
essayists that England has ever known, — Burke, Macaulay, 
Lamb, Carlyle, Coleridge, Jeffrey, Hazlitt, Sydney Smith, 
Landor, Leigh Hunt, "Wilson, De Quincey. These men knew 
the laws of literary art, and recognized the fact that the artistic 
must be paramount with tlae intellectual in any writing which 
is to be ranked as literature. In general, the whole develop- 
ment of the English essay during these years was toward mag- 
nifying its aesthetic qualities and its artistic workmanship. In 
De Quincey — as tJie English essayist ^^a?- excellence by al- 
most general confession — we shall find these requirements sat- 
isfied. 

The essay presents varied types. It may adopt every possible 
tone, — the impassioned and emotional, the analytical, the im- 
aginative, the reflective, the logical ; it may call in the aid 
Types of of every other kind of prose, — narrative, descriptive, 
the essay or argumentative; it may lay its hand upon every 
possible subject, from the simple themes chosen by Lamb to 
the complex criticisms of Carlyle. It is only by approximating 
the relative proportions of all these elements that we may 
approach even the broadest classification of types. The follow- 
ing is one generally agreed upon. 

1. Philosophical or didactic essays. 

2. Critical essays. 

3. Historical and biographical essays. 

4. Descriptive and poetic essays. 

The didactic essay in its purest form carries us back to Bacon's 
" crowded treasuries of truths." Literary elegance to him meant 
force and sententiousness, and the elements of fancy and imagi- 
nation were seldom admitted. The year of the establishment 
of the Edinhurgh Review (1802) marks the beginning of tlie 
critical essay as a definite literary form. The papers contributed 
to that periodical by two of its founders — Jeffrey and Sydney 
Smith — were the earliest exponents of the type. Its purpose 
was literary criticism, often bitter and destructive, sometimes 
appreciative, but always useful in deciding standards and formu- 



THE ESSAY AS A LITEKAKV FOK.M XXXV 

lating canons of literary art. To-day the critical essay seems to 
hold precedence among all other forms of prose ; it explores every 
field of life, and it runs the whole gamut between the serious 
and the flippant. The essays of Matthew Arnold and Walter 
Pater, combining the highest aesthetic with the highest critical 
faculty, show the fine perfection which may be attained by this 
form of literature. Macaulay is the preeminent writer of essays 
of the third class, — historical or biographical reviews of chosen 
subjects, designed to present facts as well as opinions. To read 
his Essay on Milton is to learn the whole history of the Stuart 
period ; and to know his Johnson is to know all about the 
Queen Anne's men — and women, — truth and gossip. This 
love of telling all he knew led Macaulay to extend the ordinary 
limits of the essay, and to portray facts for their own sake. 
Briefly, his essays may be called " short cuts " to knowledge. 
Of the fourth type are Lamb's essays, free from whatever is 
didactic or logical or instructive, and dominated by the way- 
ward personal touch which a poet claims as his right. The 
impassioned style of prose is sometimes credited with creating a 
separate and distinct form of the essay ; but it is, perhaps, more 
exact to designate it as a tone that may now and then creep 
into all of the other types. It comes nearest to being an 
exclusive form in the essays of Burke, — those persuasive, emo- 
tional, glowing " words that burn." But we find touches of it 
everywhere, — now in an essay of Macaulay's, now in a sketch 
of Lamb's, often in Carlyle's reviews, and something as near it 
as formality^ would permit even in Bacon's guarded prose. 

Has De Quincey, then, no place in this classification ? When 
we come to a De Quincey or a Ruskin or a Carlyle Ave find the 
futility of rigid classification, and almost reach the conclusion 
that it is the smaller men who create types, while Character- 
the greater over-ride all lines of classification. They Istiosol 
cannot be " pigeon-holed " so readily ; and this in cey's 
itself is a tribute to their greatness. Our interest assays 
in De Quincey is enhanced, and our sense of his genius is en- 
larged-, when we realize that his versatility evades classification. 
Like Bacon, he seems to have taken all knowledge for his 
province ; and that knowledge assumed at each turn a new garb, 
until its entire literary wardrobe became a very kaleidoscope of 
color and form. De Quincey's own classification of his essays 
into 



XXXVl THE ESSAY AS A LITEKAKV EORM 

1. Descriptive, Biographical, and Historical, 

2. Speculative, Didactic, and Critical, 

3. Imaginative and Prose Poetry, 

almost exactly covers our general classification. We might, 
then, echo Dr. Johnson's epitaph upon Goldsmith: "He left 
scarcely any style of writing untouched." Bacon would have 
classified the above as essays of memory, essays of reason, 
essays of imagination. Either nomenclature gives us a right to 
expect every typical form of the essay among De Quincey's 
Avritings. Nor are Ave disappointed. The diversity of his prose 
is partly what has made him great. But more than that, " he 
touched nothing that he did not adorn." To the writing of 
such essays as are listed in the first group he brought all the 
resources of a knowledge and memory beyond that of most men ; 
to the second group he gave an impressive treatment that lent 
force and power to his most original speculations ; to the third 
group he gave the impassioned tone that marks great poetry and 
is seldom found in prose. Moreover, all these qualities reach, 
not always, but at their height, a mark not often attained by 
any other writer. 

There are two elements which enter into the structure of all 
essays. These are the fundamental topics, and the related topics. 
The stnio- "^^^ former are those considerations which the essayist 
tureol counts of chief importance, and which he places, if 

essays j^-^ structure be good, in the conspicuous positions in 

liis essay. The latter are matters of less importance in relation 
to the theme, but of vital importance in that they support and 
connect the main parts. To take a concrete example, we find 
that the fundamental topics of Macaulay's Essay on Milton 
are Milton's poetry, Milton's politics, Milton's character ; some 
of the related topics which support these are tlie relation of 
poetry to civilization, the comparison of Milton and Dante, the 
justification of the English Rebellion, the contrast between the 
Puritans and the Cavaliers. These latter points must be woven 
into the discussion so as not to break up its unity and yet so 
as to seem necessary and vital. Properly managed, they throw 
into relief the main ideas, develop interesting lines of thought 
suggested by them, and round out the skeleton which the 
main topics constitute. Improperly managed, they stray into by- 
paths interesting to the author, but remote from his theme ; 
worse than that, by attracHng undue attention, they may destroy 



THE ESSAY AS A LTTE1!AI!Y FORM XXXVil 

the proportion of the whole. 1\) say that the related topics 
should keep a subordinate position is not saying, by any means, 
that they need be inferior in style or interest. For, in the essay 
of Macaulay's already cited, one of the most memorable passages 
is the scathing condemnation of Charles II. Writers vary in 
introducing and connecting related topics from Burke's logical, 
economical compactness and conscientious proportion, to Carlyle's 
loose adjustment of part to part, and impetuous emphasis which 
made his topics " pegs on which to hang thoughts," rather than 
connected parts of one whole. But no English essayist, not even 
Carlyle, has digressed half so frequently or half so far atield as 
did De Quincey. Digression in itself is not always unjustifiable : 
it may soften and relieve the main thought, vary the movement 
of preceding passages, alleviate the stress laid upon some as- 
pect of the subject, or throw light upon surrounding matter. 
It is wholly unjustifiable, however, when it is not recognized 
by the writer as digression. This De Quincey never fails to 
do. Unlike Carlyle, he acknowledges his habit. He announces 
often beforehand that he is going to wander ; or he confesses 
afterward that he has been a-roving and wishes to return to 
the starting-point of his " rigamarole," as Mr. Saintsbury good- 
naturedly calls it. 

The beginning and the end of an essay are not to be neglected 
even in a brief discussion of its structure. The introduction of the 
periodical essay is generally a statement of the specific occasion 
for the writing of the paper. Macaulay's introduction states that 
he writes of Milton because a hitherto undiscovered manuscript of 
the Puritan pamphleteer had recently been brought to light. So 
De Quincey writes of Joan of Arc because M. Michelet's treatment 
of her in his History of France arouses his resentment. The 
conclusion is, by common consent, that part of the discussion 
in which the writer lays aside his deliberative tone and addresses 
the imagination and emotions of his readers, bringing his essay 
to a climax in a panegyric upon his subject and a strong per- 
sonal appeal for sympathy with his point of view. 

The following brief outline of the two essays in hand will 
serve to substantiate these statements in regard to structure. 



STKUCTUEE OF " JOAX OF ARC 



THE STRUCTURE AND STYLE OF "JOAN OF 
ARC" AND "THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH" 

A. Introduction. 

Purpose of the essay. 

1. to arouse sympathy for Joan of Arc, IF 1-2. 

2. to controvert M. Michelet's opinion of her, 1i 3-4. 

B. Discussion. 

I. Natural reasons for Joaii's mystic patriotism 

1. Patriotism fostered by frontier location of Dom- 
Structureof remy, IF 5-8. 

Joan ol Arc 2. Patriotism fostered by the national crisis in France, 
IF 9-10. 

3. Mysticism fostered by the solitude of her early 

home, IF 11-13. 

4. Mysticism fostered by her lonely occupation of 

shepherdess, IF 14. 

5. Her power to distinguish the Dauphin only the 

result of her meditations, IF 15-19. 

II. The spiritual struggles of her experience 
(Introduction — brief survey of her career. If 20.) 

1. Struggle in combating opposition, IF 21. 

2. Struggle in facing the cruelties of war, IF 22. 

3. Struggle in meeting her trial, IF 23. 

4. Struggle against her longing to die in Domremy, 

1124. 

5. Struggle of her martyrdom, IF 25-29. 

C. Conclusion. 

The emotional appeal of the essay 

1. The contrast between the visions of Joan and of 
the Bishop of Beauvais, IF 30-32. 

This outline shows at a glance the fundamental topics, the 
secondary topics, and the relation between the two. It reveals 
the impassioned point of view which controls the whole essay 
and the tone of personal championship which pervades it. It 
makes evident the unity of the discussion. It cannot enumerate 



STKUCTUKE OF " THE ENGLISH MAIL-CUACH XXXIX 

all the digressions, such as the review of the history of Lorraine in 
1[ 7, the legend of Charlemagne in 1[ 11, and others. Could we 
tabulate the stress or the tone of the essay, however, we should 
find some of these sections ringing out boldly ; we should realize 
that much of the color and life of the essay belongs to them, and 
wonder that De Quincey could touch with such readiness and 
enthusiasm upon so many related ideas. 

To attempt an analysis of Tlie English Mail-Coach. would 
be as absurd as to try to diagram a musical rhapsody ; for such 
this wonderful bit of writing really is. Its art, then, gtr^g^^j-g 
consists, not in perfecting a logical and effective ofTheEng- 
arrangement of parts, but in performing a far more Ush Mail- 
delicate feat, — the pursuit of a suggested theme, 
which, like the theme of a musical composition, must appear 
not too insistently or too obviously, but must yet be caught 
here and there, varied and dim sometimes as an echo, but per- 
sistent enough to give a subtle unity to the whole. The marvel 
of De Quincey's triumph in accomplishing this grows upon us 
with each reading of the essay. 

The term " fugue " De Quincey has used for the title of 
the third section, but the idea of a fugue is worked out as well 
through the The Glory of Motion and The Vision of Sudden 
Death. They initiate the theme and develop it with their 
own additions and variations, until the complex harmony comes 
to a full orchestral close in The Dream Fugue. 

In The Glory of Motion De Quincey strikes chords which 
are to reverberate throughout the whole essay: — the mail-coach 
as a dramatic distributer of news in time of war ; young Ox- 
ford's ingenuity in making the outside seat on the coach the 
throne of honor ; the hopelesS race of the " flaunting, tawdry 
thing " from Birmingham with Her Majesty's mail ; the picture 
of Miss Fanny of the Bath Koad and her rosy grandfather with 
the "crocodile infirmity." Then all these pass with dream-like 
ease into a bewitching maze ; Fanny, the rose, the crocodile in 
scarlet livery driving the coach, sphinxes and basilisks cross and 
recross one another in a beautiful confusion that suggests the full 
hurried melody of a musical finale. In the second part of this 
section, Going Down with Victory, this theme appears again. 
The mail-coach, now adorned with laurels, is the glorious bearer 
of the news of a great victory; but its note of triumph, vibrat- 
ing against many listening hearts, works itself out into as many 



xl STRUCTURE OF " THK ENGLISH MAIL-COACH" 

different songs, — a rhapsody of delicious joy, a dirge of mourn- 
ing, a chant of sacritice, a hymn of thanksgiving. 

The Vision of Sudden Death, strikes a seemingly remote 
key, — different conceptions of sudden death. But gradually it 
attunes itself to the dream-note as De Quincey illustrates his 
own conception by an allusion to that element of agonizing 
possibility of escape from destruction which haunts our dreams. 
Then the narrative begins. We return to the stage coach and 
again mount the favored outside seat beside the old Oxford 
coachman, Cyclops. The dream atmosphere gradually enfolds 
all, as Cyclops falls asleep and the coach speeds along the silence 
and solitude of the road, bearing one passenger, drowsy with 
opium. Upon his meditations of the infinite, born of the quiet- 
ness of the night, breaks suddenly the sound of approaching 
wheels. Then follows the wonderful portrayal of the agony, 
known to our dreams, of calculating the slight chance of escape 
for the unconscious pair in the approaching gig, the mighty re- 
lief of the moment of miraculous deliverance, and then the turn 
of the road, which sweeps away the vision forever. 

With the third section, the fugitive ideas of the first and 
second are brought together in a wonderful harmony. The 
musical prelude strikes ever so lightly the old notes of sudden 
death, suffering martyr-woman, the trumpet call, " shuddering 
humanity on the brink of almighty abysses," and the " gorgeous 
mosaics of dreams." Then appears the fiery pinnace, bearing the 
"unknown lady from the dreadful vision," dissolving with 
dream-like suddenness into the shadow of Death and disappear- 
ing. Second comes the frigate, running athwart the dreamer's 
course, but veering just in time to avoid collision. The lady 
of the pinnace stands among the shrouds, rising and sinking 
through the waves and mists that group themselves into " arches 
and long cathedral aisles " until — and the dream, ends unfinished. 
The third division opens with the sound of funeral l)el]s soothing 
the dreamer as he sleeps in the rocking boat ; he awakens and 
beholds through the dusk a girl — the lady of the pinnace? — 
running to her death in the quicksands ahead. The dream-like 
race to warn her begins, but the pursuer feels her flying from 
him as from another peril, and before he can overtake her the 
quicksands have engulfed her form. But through his tears and 
the tolling of the funeral bells, the triumphant song of victory 
— the old note — "swallows up all strife." In the fourth part 



DE gUIXCEV's STVLK xli 

all the old chords are struck again. The dream coach waits in 
the dark for the signal to start, — the word uf victory, " Wa- 
terloo and Recovered Christendom." Then into the aisles of 
a cathedral it drives while altar lights burst into flame and 
choristers chant the song of triumph. On it rolls into the city 
of the dead, among the bas-reliefs of battles, until it meets the 
child in the carriage of flowers, as before the coach met the un- 
conscious lovers. And as the dreamer in Tlie Vision of Sudden 
Death shouted his cry of warning, the Dying Trumpeter now 
rises from his bas-relief field of battle, and blows the note of 
danger, while the dreamer takes his place in the marble. The 
child changes to the vision of the lady of the pinnace ; she clings 
to the altar, as she clung to the shrouds of the laboring frigate, 
until she is rescued by the Angel of Life triumphing over Death. 
Then comes the final movement, "the completion of the passion 
of the mighty fugue," — the vision of peace, — as the dreamer, 
the Dying Trumpeter, and the throng of the quick and the 
dead move in solemn procession from the cathedral singing 
halleluiahs to the God of Deliverance. And the last sweet per- 
sisting strain is the thanksgiving for the rescue of the " sister 
vinknown " from "desert seas," "the darkness of quicksands" 
and all forms of " sudden death." 

It is evident, then, that the structure of this essay presents 
a unity too subtle for rigid analysis. The parts, wonderful in 
themselves, must hold attention for a moment, but in the end 
surrender their identities to the artistic perfection of the whole. 
With this type of essay we must content ourselves with loving 
the "wood-rose" and leaving it "upon its stalk." We can of 
course tabulate headings and sub-headings, but to present such 
an outline of The EnglisJi Mail-Coach would be as absurd as 
to offer the measurements of cap, wings, and wand for an appre- 
ciation of the grace and buoyancy of the Bargello Mercury. 

The dominant impression made by the first reading of the two 
essays in hand, is that here is a prose different from all other prose, 
— whose substance is composed of ideas, fancies, judg- originality 
ments, and opinions unlike those of the conventional andlnde- 
thinker, and whose expression imitates no master and olDeQuln- 
acknowledges no creed of style. We read Joan of Arc cey's style 
and realize in its pages an attitude toward the martyr-maid that 
does not tally with the routine views of the historians. We read 



xlii DE gUIXCEV's STVLK 

The Enylisk Mail-Coach and are conscious tliat, although some 
of us may be mystics, and all of us " dreamers of dreams," no 
one of us could have dreamed that dream, or, dreaming it, have 
pictured its fantasies in words where " more is meant than meets 
the ear." Even these two essays are enough to convince us that 
De Quincey is likely to start from an original point of view and 
hunt new trails ; that he will not bind himself to think the 
thoughts, speak the words, or live in the world of other men. 
His is the attitude of mind that marks the recluse and the 
dreamer. "I have passed more of my life," he says, *'in abso- 
lute and unmitigated solitude, voluntarily and for intellectual 
purposes, than any person of my age whom I have ever met 
with, heard of, or read of." 

That inner world, however, is not shut to anything which the 
dreamer chooses to admit from the world outside. Into it are 
welcomed, through books, the histories of all ages and lands, the 
facts of all sciences, the theories of all philosophies, the beauties 
of all arts. And these appear in the material of De Quincey's 
essays, not as tricks of memory as Macaulay's allusions often seem, 
but as vital parts of the thought. So numerous are these references 
Breadth of and quotations that one may well believe that those 
knowledge years of solitude were indeed devoted to " intellectual 
purposes." And so obscure are some of them that one suspects 
that the author himself might not always have been ready to 
furnish their sources. He may not, for instance, have known 
where he had read of "those mysterious fauns which tempted 
solitary hunters into visionary and perilous pursuits," or of the 
''ancient stag" whom Charlemagne knighted. But in his mind 
those fancies were interwoven with the mystery of the forest 
whose voices spoke to Joan, so he suggests them to reproduce 
tliat atmosphere in his essay. And there lies the artistic triumph . 
of tlie allusion, — that the strength of its relations and asso- 
ciations should dwarf all mere considerations of identification. 
To count up the number of allusions in these essays would con- 
vince us at once of the multifariousness of De Quincey's know- 
ledge ; but to.grasp all the inferences he drew from his comparisons, 
and to sense the color they give to his thought, is to begin to 
realize its height and depth and breadth. Like the famous muster- 
rolls of Milton, his Marie Antoinette, Charlotte Corday, Campo 
Santo, Al Sirat, and the rest of the long list of magic names at 
his pen's end, " produce upon us an effect wholly independent of 



I)E QUIxXCEY'S style xliii 

their intrinsic value." ' His own detinitiou of a scholar was " not 
one who depended upon an infinite memory, but upon an infinite 
and electrical power of combination, of bringing together from 
the four winds, like the angel of the resurrection, what else were 
dust from dead men's bones into the unity of breathing life." 
What De Quincey said of Burke was equally true of himself : 
" He viewed all objects of the understanding under more rela- 
tions than other men and under more complex relations." So the 
wonder is not only that his mind was retentive enough to hold 
so much knowledge, but that it was keen and analytical enough 
to master it. 

To have so broad a perspective of the thought of the world, 
past and present, implies the vantage-ground of a certain aloof- 
ness from the world. In that retirement the mind is most sus- 
ceptible to impressions of grandeur. Majesty in any form De 
Quincey loved to contemplate, whether the spiritual majesty of 
a Joan of Arc or the physical grandeur of such scenes Love of 
as appear and disappear in The English 3Iail- Coach, i^ystery 
" He went through the world wrapped in a general religious 
wonder. " ^ Out of those meditations the sublime figure of his 
Joan of Arc was born ; out of those conscious dreams were woven 
the mysteries of the lonely ride of the night mail, — and these, 
dwelling persistently with him, found expression in some moment 
of inspired eloquence in that passionate rhetoric which gives to 
his prose all the sublimity of great poetry. " No dignity is per- 
fect," he writes, "that does not connect itself with the myste- 
rious." He loved all that was visionary and elusive. Even his 
actual experiences, as he recounts them, seem to be recalled from 
some dream, so shadowy and unreal are they. " He had a sure 
footing in dim and distant regions, where fantasy piles her 
towers, and raises her colonnades, and wraps all in her weird and 
wondrous drapery." 

It is said that a mere item in a missionary journal was the basis 
of De Quincey's Flight of a Tartar Tribe, and that all that 
wonderful narrative was simply the result of his power to build 
an impressive structure upon the slight foundation of a single 
fact. That same inventive genius we feel in Joan of inventive 
Arc, and we appreciate what he writes not necessarily power, 
as actual fact, but as his own emotional interpretation of fact. 
In the Mail-Coach we have a pure bit of invention dealing 
1 Macaulav's Milton. 2 Masson. 



xliv i)K quixcey's style 

with a subject that demands nothing else. Everything that be- 
longs to the realm of tlie imagination is here. The writer abandons 
himself utterly to the mystic vagaries of his fancy, let it lead him 
where it will and let who will follow. And he who does will to 
follow is carried into a dreamland which none but the mighti- 
est magician could conjure up. Were this one piece of writing 
lost, the highest type of literary invention would be missing from 
English literature. 

Pathos pervades the atmosphere of both these essays. In Joan 
of Arc it is of the passionate type that is so often felt at the crisis 
of a great drama. We could hardly weep for La Pucelle any more 
than for Lady Macbeth ; yet our sympathy and pity in each case 
are aroused to the point of despair. There is nothing 
sensational or sentimental in the portrayal of Joan's 
martyrdom, but the intensity of the writer's feeling communicates 
itself to us and her death appears to us as a sublime spectacle of 
human suffering too great for words. The quality of pathos in 
the Mail-Coach is different. There we comprehend the melan- 
choly which life must always have held for De Quincey, — pain, 
bereavement, and all the more subtle forms of anguish known 
to human experience. Masson has called De Quincey the master 
of the whole science of sorrow. He might have added that his 
temperament was heir to more sorrows than most souls know, 
and that a small grief could be to him an overpowering tragedy. 
To be convinced that De Quincey actually possessed an irre- 
.sistible humor, the student should read the Essay on Miirder 
Considered as One of the Fine Arts, or the accounts of the king- 
doms of Gombroon and Tigrosylvania in the Aiifuhiographic 
Notes, — rollicking extravaganzas in a mock-serious tone. Only 
fragments of humor do we find in T]i.e English Mail- 
Coach, such as the account of the race between the 
two mails or the introduction of coaches into China. In Joan of 
Arc there are a few touches that pretend to humor, and their 
pretension is the worst thing about them. Each reader must 
decide for himself whether he thinks De Quincey's remarks 
about Monsieur D' Arc's mending his own stockings, the pun on 
Champenoise, and the by-play with Miss Haumette are humor- 
ous or not, in good taste or not. To one, at least, they seem to 
lend weight to the opinions of the critics who liave said that 
sometimes De Quincey's humor " mocks at gravity and pulls the 
beards of dignitaries." 



DE QUINCEV'.S STYLE xlv 

With such prose as De Quincey's, form and expression are as 
essential elements as they are in poetry. Like Milton's verse, 
it should he read aloud to he appreciated. Leslie Musical 
Stephen says, '* One may fancy that if De Quincey's elleotof 
language were emptied of all meaning whatever, the ^^^^ 
mere sound of the words would move us as the lovely word 
Mesopotamia moved Whitefield's followers." The subtle tone 
changes of the Dream Fugue show how sensitive the writer was 
to all that appeals to the ear. The musical effect of the Dream 
Fugue is not paralleled by any consecutive passages in Joan of 
Arc, but there we have the majesty of the opening paragraph 
and the triumphant crescendo of the conclusion as the prelude and 
close of a mighty paean. Within the finale is one perfect little 
strain: " The shepherd girl that had delivered France — she, 
from her dungeon, from her baiting at the stake, she from her 
duel with fire, as she entered her last dream — saw Domremy, 
saw the fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests in which 
her childhood had wandered." That music echoes in our ears 
long after the sound of the words has died away, and swings 
itself into the rhythm of Deborah's song: "At her feet he 
bowed, he fell, he lay down ; at her feet, he bowed, he fell : 
where he bowed, there he fell down dead." 

There is, happily, no effort apparent in this musical efTect. 
De Quincey's ease is captivating. He is at home in all the 
wonders of his expression, and all unconscious of any 
listener. He said, " My way of writing is to think 
aloud." The atmosphere of relaxation pervades all his works. 
His prose wanders here and there at will. De Quincey is com- 
monly condemned for his digressions; and a detailed analysis of 
these essays would show many instances where they are almost 
annoying. But in the end every stray excursion from the direct 
path has discovered many a beauty of thought or expression that 
would otherwise have been lost. Moreover, his digressions are 
never awkward stumblings-about in the dark, but always grace- 
ful, sure detours to include some point of view well worth 
winning. Masson describes this ease with words that we cannot 
resist quoting. " If one could fancy such a thing as a flow of ivy 
or other foliage, rich, soft, glancing, but not too dense, advan- 
cing quietly over a surface and covering it equally, but with a 
power of shooting itself rapidly to selected points and pinnacles, 
that might be an image of De Quincey's language overspreading 



xlvi DE QUINCEY'S style 

a subject. It moves quietly, enfolding all it meets with easy 
grace, and leaving a vesture pleasantly soft and fine, rather than 
gaudily varied or obtrusive ; but it can collect itself into rings 
of overgrowth or shoot into devices and festoons." 

The occasional passionate force to which these last words 
refer is splendidly exemplified in our essays. The mighty feel- 
Passionate ing in the close of Joan of Arc, the emotion that 
force creeps into even the narrative passages of the Mail- 

Coach, to say nothing of the sustained intensity of the 
Dream- Fugue, can hardly be paralleled in English prose. "We 
naturally look to poetry for the expression of such exalted 
feeling. It is characteristic of De Quincey, however, that this 
jiassion never loses its intellectual balance, nor ever, even at 
its height, its "artistic self-possession." There is a fire and 
a glow and a warmth, but it is all tempered to form and 
dignity. 

In conclusion, tlien, De Quincey stands among the essayists 
of the early nineteenth century as the one who, although pos- 
sessed of the greatest intellectual powers, yet counted above all 
else the aesthetic qualities of the art of composition. His was 
an inborn instinct for form, and a perfect sense of the beauty 
of sound. "His language," to quote Leslie Stephen again, 
"deserves a commendation sometimes bestowed by ladies upon 
a rich garment, that it is capable of standing up by itself." 
How he enriched and extended the power and scope of the 
English language we may best appreciate when we reflect that 
he may lie said to have created a new form in English lit- 
erature, the prose poem. 

For those who wish to make a detailed study of the elements 
of De Quincey's style the following suggestions may prove 
helpful. Only a few illustrations of each point are given, as 
the whole value of analytical work of this kind depends upon 
the student's ability to recognize examples for himself. 

1. De QtriNCEY's Paragraphs 

1. Definite announcements of paragraph topic 
Illustration : " I am not going to write the history of La 

Pucelle. . . . But my purpose is narrower." p. 4. 

2. Digressions from topic 

Illustration : "But stay . . . the real one is Joanna, 
the Pucelle d'Orleans for herself." pp. 2-4. 



DE QUINCEY"S style xlvii 

3. Formal return from digressions 

Illustration: "But now, confining our attention to M. 
Michelet," p. 3. 

4. Effective beginnings of paragraphs 

Illustration : " What is to be thought of her? " p. 1. 

5. Progression of the paragraph to a climax 
Illustration : " It is not requisite . . . what remained 

was — to suffer." pp. 15-16. 

6. Strong endings of paragraphs 

Illustration : " No, she did not, though one should rise 
from the dead to swear it." p. 24. 

7. Abrupt, challenging endings of paragraphs 
Illustrations : *' If you can . . . why have you not ? " 

p. 21. 

" But the lady " p. 65. 

8. Careful connections between paragraphs 
Illustrations : " Such being at that time " etc. p. 31. 

" This sympathy with France " etc. 
p. 6. 
II. De Quincey's Sentences 

1. Frequent use of the long sentence 

a. Lengthened by parenthesis 

Illustration : " Even the wild story " etc. p. 7. 

b. Lengthened by relative clauses 

Illustration : "At this particular season " etc. p. 5^. 

c. Lengthened by parallel clauses 

Illustration: "The shepherd girl that had" etc. 
p. 25. 

d. Lengthened by enumeration 

Illustration : " On the 29th of June " etc. p. 16. 

2. Long sentences lacking unity 
Illustrations : " In defiance of all " etc. p. 41. 

" If the reader turns to " etc. pp. 14- 
15. 

3. Periodic form of long sentences 

• Illustratio7i : " How if it were the noble " etc. p. 
21. 

4. Use of the balanced sentence 

Illustrations : "All that was to be done " etc. p. 16. 

" She pricks for sheriffs : Joan pricked 
for a king." p. 13. 



xlviii DE QUINCEY'S style 

5. Use of the short sentence 

a. For introduction 

Illustration: " Now came her trial." p. 18. 

b. For transition 

Illustration: " Great wits jump." p. 32. 

c. For conclusion 

Illustration: "And the darkness comprehended it." 
p. 70. 

d. For emphasis 

Illustration : " Both are from English pens." p. 22. 

6. Use of the loose sentence 

Illustration: "There was an impression . . . could 
not have been booked." pp. 33-35. This succession 
of loose sentences gives the easy, conversational tone. 
III. De Quinoey's Words 

His vocabulary is computed to be larger than either 
Carlyle's or Macaulay's. 

1. Use of Latin derivatives 

a. For sake of sonorous sound 

Illustrations : " perseverance of his indomitable 
malice " p. 4. 

" diffusively influential " p. 29. 
" illustrious quarternion " p. 30. 

b. For precision of meaning 
Illustrations : " confluent " p. 57. 

" decussated " p. 5. 
" praedial " p. 11. 

c. Technical terms 
Illustrations : " Onus " p. 24. 

" Radix of the series " p. 60. 

2. Use of foreign words 

Illustrations : " coup d'essai " p. 12-13. 
" jStaOdvaros " p. 51. 
" fey " p. 48. 

3. Use of coined words 
Illustratiojis : " sur-rebribed " p. 33. 

" lawny thickets " p. 39. 
" prelibation " p. 44. 

4. Occasional slang : often criticised as a defect of De 

Quincey's style. 
Illustration : "raff" p. 31. 



OUTLINE FOR GENEKAL STUDY OF AN ESSAY xlix 

IV. De Qtjixcet's Figures of Speech 

These are frequent and natural ; sometimes, as in 
" straight as an arrow " (p. 61), almost commonplace ; 
sometimes most unusual. Examples of the following 
can be found at every turn : but each example should 
be discussed by itself. 

1. Personifications 

2. Similes 

3. Metaphors 

4. Climax 

5. Apostrophe 

6. Allusion 

7. Alliteration : the most conspicuous of many alliterated 

passages is that on p. 58, "And to strengthen . . . 
peace," where the repetition of the s gives the sug- 
gestion of a hush. On p. 71, " Every sarcophagus," 
etc., repeats the word battle until it gives the effect 
of alliteration. 



OUTLINE FOR GENERAL STUDY OF AN ESSAY 

The following outline is offered, not with perfect assurance 
that it will cover all points of discussion, but with the hope 
that it may be of some assistance in planning a careful study of 
any essay. 

A. Discussion of Subject-Matter 

1. State the line of thought in the introduction. 

2. State the fundamental topics of the discussion. 

3. State the related topics of the discussion. 

4. State the point of view from which the subject is dis- 

cussed. 

5. State the line of thought in the conclusion. 

B. Discussion of Form 

1. . Decide by analysis the relative lengths of introduction, 
discussion, and conclusion. 

2. Decide by analysis the relative importance of the funda- 

mental topics. 

3. Decide by analysis the proportion of relative to funda- 

mental topics. 



OUTLINE FOR GENERAL STUDY OF AN ESSAY 

4. Decide by analysis the amount of digression from main 

theme. 

5. Test the compactness of the structure by an examination 

of relations and connectives between the parts. 
Discussion of Style 

1. Paragraphs 

a. Are the paragraphs well unified ? 

b. Do they progress to climaxes ? 

c. Is there variety in paragraph length ? 

d. Where are the topics of the paragraphs usually 

announced ? 

e. What different forms of development of the topic are 

used : repetition, cause and effect, detail and cir- 
cumstance, negative statement, incident or exam- 
ple, comparison or analogy ? 

2. Sentences 

a. Is there variety of sentence form ? 
h. If not, what form predominates and what quality does 
it give to the author's style ? 

c. Quote from the text examples of the short sentence, 

stating why each is used. 

d. Quote from the text examples of the long sentence, 

stating why each is used. 

e. Quote from the text examples of the loose sentence, 

stating why each is used. 

f. Quote from the text examples of the periodic sentence, 

stating why each is used. 

g. Quote from the text examples of the balanced sen- 

tence, stating why each is used. 

3. Words 

a. Does the author's vocabulary seem large or small ? 

Usual or unusual ? 

b. Quote examples of words that are particularly well 

chosen. 

c. Quote examples of unusual words, and comment upon 

their fitness. 

d. Quote any foreign words or phrases. Why were they 

used ? Would the English equivalent have served 
the author's purpose ? 

4. Ornaments of style 
a. Figures of Speech 



OUTLINE FOR GENERAL STUDY OF AN ESSAY li 

(1) Are they frequent or few ? 

(2) Are they used for clearness, or beauty and adorn- 

ment ? 

(3) Are they natural or forced ? Conventional or origi- 

nal ? 

b. Allusions 

(1) Are they numerous or few ? 

(2) From what sources are they drawn? 

(3) Are they readily recognized or obscure? 

(4) Are they introduced for their own sake, or to throw 

light upon the subject ? 

c. Quotations 

(1) Are they numerous or few ? 

(2) Are they from prominent or obscure writers ? 

(3) What tone do they impart to the essay ? 

(4) Are they necessary to the discussion ? 

(5) Are they introduced naturally or are they forced ? 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1. The Collected Works of Thomas de Quincey. Author's edition. 
Edinburgh, 1862-71. PubUshed by Adam and Charles Black. 
16 vols. 

2. The Works of Thomas de Quincey. Boston, 1876. Published by 
Ticknor and Fields. 12 vols. 

3. Thomas de Quincey : his Life and Writings. H. A. Page (A. H. 
Japp) 

4. Thomas de Quincey. David Masson. English Men of Letters 

5. De Quincey and his Friends. James Hogg 

This volume contains the famous sketch of De Quincey by John Hill 
Burton, entitled " Papaverius." 

6. De Quincey Memorials. Collected by H. A. Page 

7. Essays in English Literature. First Series. George E. B. Saints- 

bury 

8. Hours in a Library, Vol. i, Leslie Stephen 

9. Essays about Men, Women, and Books. Augustine Birrell 

10. Essays in Biography and Criticism. Peter Bayne 

11. Representative English Prose. Theodore W. Hunt 

12. Manual of English Prose Literature. William Minto 



SUPPLEMENTARY READING 

The following list of readings is suggested for the use of students 
who may wish to become better acquainted with De Quincey's prose. 
The references are to the volumes of De Quincey's works published 
by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 

1. Autobiographic Sketches, Vol. ii 

The Affliction of Childhood, pp. 27-51 

The "Horrid Pugilistic Brother," pp. 59-72 

Warfare with the Manchester Factory Boys, pp. 74-95 

The Kingdom of Gombroon, pp. 96-112 

Oxford, pp. 499-505, 521-525, and 561-572 

2. Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, Vol. i 

Preliminary Confessions, pp. 15-63 

3. Suspiria de Profundis, Vol. i 

Levana and our Ladies of Sorrow, pp. 237-247 
Savannah-La-Mar, pp. 253-257 

4. On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts, Vol. xi, pp. 529- 

570 

5. On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. iv, pp. 533-541 

6. The Flight of a Tartar Tribe, Vol. xii, pp. 1-73. Also in River- 

side Literature Series, No. 110 

7. The Beauties of De Quincey. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. These se- 

lections are representative of De Quincey's biographical notes, 
dreams, narratives, critiques, and reminiscences : the volume 
is prefaced by a sketch of De Quincey's life. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE, 1819-1859 



De Quincey's Publications 



Contemporary Publications 



1819 Editor of the Westmoreland Gaz- 
ette 



1821 Confessions of an English Opium- 
£ater, Herder, Richter, with 
Analects (Loudon Magazine) 



1822-24 Letters to a Young Man whose 
Education has been Neglected, 
Rosicrucians and Free Masons, 
etc. (London Magazine) 

1826-27 Lessing with translations from 
Laocoon (Blackwood's) 

1827 Afurder Considered as One of the 
Fine Arts 

1828-32 Toilette of a Hebrew Lady, 
Richard Bentley, Dr. Parr, 
The Ccesars, Charlemagne, etc. 
(Blackwood's) 

1832 Klosterheim 



1834-40 Autobiographical Sketches and 
Reminiscences 

1837 Shakespeare, Goethe, Pope (En- 
cyclopaedia Britannica) 
The Revolt of the Tartars (Black- 
wood's) 

1840-45 The Essenes, Style, Rhetoric, 
Homer and the Homeridce, 
Cicero, Coleridge and Opium- 
Eating (Blackwood's) 



1844 lyogic of Political Economy 
(Blackwood's) 

1845-46 Notes on Literary Portraits, 
Godwin, Shelley, Keats, etc., 
System of the Heavens (Tait's), 
Suspiria de Profundis, a Sequel 
to the Confessions (hlackvfood's) 

1847 Joan of Arc, The Spanish Nun, 
Protestantism, etc. (Tait's) 



1819 Shelley's Prometheus Unbound 
1819 Scott's Bride of Lammermoor 

and Ivanhoe 
1819 Irving's Sketch Book 
1820-22 La.mh's Essays of Elia 
1821 Landor's Imaginary Conversa- 
tions 
1821 Hazlitt's Dramatic Literature of 

the Age of Elizabeth, 
1821 Shelley's Adonais 
1821 Byron's Don Juan 
1822-35 Wilson's Nodes Ambrosianoe 

1824 Hazlitt's Table Talk 

1825 Macaulav's Essay on Milton 

1825 Scott's the Talisman 

1826 Scott's Woodstock 

1826 Disraeli's Vivian Grey 

1827 Tennyson's Poems by Two Bro- 
thers 

1829 Southey's Colloquies on Society 

1830 Tennyson's Poews Chiefly Lyrical 

1832 Tennyson's Poems 

1832 Browning's Pauline 

1833 Lamb's Last Essays of Elia 

1833 Carlyle's Sartor Resnrtus 

1834 Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii 

1835 Browning's Paracelsus 
1835 Bulwer's Rienzi 

1837 Carlyle's French Revolution 

1837 Dickens's Pickwick 

1837 Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales 

1840 Poe's Tales 

1840 Carlyle's Heroes and Hero-Wor- 
ship 

1840 Browning's Sordello 

1841 Browning's Pippa Passes 

1841 Dickens's Barnaby Rudge and 

Old Curiosity Shop 
1843 Raskin's Modern Painters, Vol. i 



1847 Leigh Hunt's Men, Women and 

Books. 
1847 I^onfrfellow's Evangeline 
1847 Tennyson's Princess 



liv 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE, 1819-1859 



Dk Quincky's Publications 



Contemporary Publications 



1849 The English Mail-Coach 



1850 Sir William Hamilton, etc. 
(Hogg's Instructor) 



1851-55. American Edition of De 
Quincey's Works, Boston 



1853-59 Selections Grave and Gay from 
the Writings of Thomas De 
Quincey. Edinburgh 



1848 Dickens's Dombey and Son 

1848 Thackeray's Vanity Fair 

1848 Bronte's Jane Eyre 

1849 Macaulav's History of England, 

VoL i 

1849 Thackeray's Pendennis 

1850 Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter 
1850 Tennyson's In Memoriam 
1850 Dickens's David Copperfield 
1850 Leigh Hunt's Autobiography 

1852 Tliackerav's Henry Esmond 

1852 Reade's Peg Woffington 

1853 Dickens's Bleak House 
1853 Mrs. Gaskell's Cranford 
1853 Kingsley's Hypatia 

1855 Browning's Men and Women 
1855 Kingsley's Westward Ho 

1855 Thackeray's The Kewcomes 

1856 Mrs. Browning's Aurora Leigh 

1857 Dickens's Little Dorrit 

1858 Thackera3''s The Viroinians 
1858 ChTlyle's Frederick the Great 

1858 Morris's Defence of Guinevere 

1859 Tennyson's Idylls of the King : 
earlier parts 

1859 George Eliot's Adam Bede 
1859 Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities 
1859 Meredith's Eichard Feverel 



" We think it were difficult to match in our late literature, 
if indeed in our whole literature, the pathetic effect realized in 
his paper on the Maid of Orleans. De Quincey has there 
enabled us to define, f^learly and conclusively, the function 
which such as she have, even in their death, performed for 
mankind. We have so much to harden us in this world, so 
stern is the struggle of existence, so sadly do the morning 
dewdrops and the early flowers vanish or wither in life's hot 
day, that you actually confer a precious boon and benefit on a 
man, when you make him shed a noble tear." — Bayne, EssaTjs 
in Biography and Criticism. 

" In that succession of dreams which we have mentioned (the 
"Dream-Fugue") and which seems to us to constitute DeQuincey's 
masterpiece, there is, over all the splendor and terror, a clear 
serenity of light which belongs to the very highest style of poetic 
beauty. The conceptions are very daring, but each form of 
spurious originality is absent, — the fantastic and the grotesque ; 
there is the mystery of the land of dreams, yet so powerful is 
the imagination which strikes the whole into being that the 



DE QUINCEY'S style Iv 

wondrous picture has the vividness and truth of reality ; while, 
with every change of scene and emotion, the language changes 
too, — now rich, glowing and bold, when the idea is free, strong 
joyousness ; now melting into a gentle, spiritual melody of 
more than ^olian softness and now rising to a Homeric swell 
that echoes the everlasting gallop of the steeds which drag that 
triumphal car. This '* Dream- Fugue" is of no great compass, 
but we think that it would alone have been sufficient to secure 
a literary immortality. Taken in connection with the incident 
which was its occasion ; considered as a poetic idealization of 
reality and an effort of linguistic power ; tried by the severe 
rules of art, as demanding the very highest manifestation of 
order and harmony possible by man, we think we could main- 
tain against all comers that this is, for its size, the noblest pro- 
duction in English prose. — Bayne, Essays in Biography and 
Criticism. 



JOAN OF ARC 

IN EEFERENCE TO M. MICHELET'S HISTORY 
OF FRANCE 

What is to be thought of her ? What is to be thought of the 
poor shepherd girl from the hills and - forests of Lorraine, that 
— like the Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of 
Judaea — rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of 
the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a 
station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station 
at the right hand of kings ? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his 
patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such as no man 
could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story 
as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies 
bore witness to the boy as no pretender ; but so they did to the 
gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them frotn a 
station of good-will, both were found true and loyal to any 
promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made 
the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose 
to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and pub- 
lic, that rang through the records of his people, and became a 
by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the 
sceptre was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on 
the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she 
had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs 
that rose in her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing 
steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at Vau- 
couleurs which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. 
No ! for her voice was then silent: no! for her feet were dust. 
Pure', innocent, noble-hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, 
ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was 
amongst the strongest pledges for thy truth, that never once — 
no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou revel in the 
vision of coronets and honor from man. Coronets for thee I 
no ! Honors, if they come when all is over, are for those that 



2 JOAN OF ARC 

share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of 
thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the 
dead. Call her, King of France, but she will not hear thee! 
Cite her by thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, 
but she will be found en contuviace. When the thunders of 
universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the 
grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her coun- 
try, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five 
centuries. To suffer and to do, that Avas thy portion in this life ; 
that was thy destiny ; and not for a moment was it hidden from 
thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short : and the sleep which is in 
the grave is long! Let me use that life, so transitory, for the 
glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep 
which is so long. This pure creature — pure from every sus- 
picion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in 
senses more obvious — never once did this holy child, as regarded 
herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was travelling 
to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her 
death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the 
fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring 
into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying 
flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked 
but here and there, until nature and imperishable truth broke 
loose from artificial restraints ; — these might not be apparent 
through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that 
called her to death, that she heard forever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great 
was he that sat upon it : but well Joanna knew that not the 
throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her ; but, on the con- 
trary, that she was for them ; not she by them, but they by 
her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of 
France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty 
over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of" God 
and man combined to wither them ; but well Joanna knew, early 
at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of 
France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell 
nor blossom, would ever bloom for her. 

But stay. What reason is there for taking up this subject of 
Joanna precisely in the spring of .1847 ? Might it not have been 
left till the spring of 1947 ; or, perhaps, left till called for ? 



JOAN OF ARC 3 

Yes, but it is called for ; and clamorously. You are aware, 
reader, that amongst the many original thinkers whom modern 
France has produced, one of the reputed leaders is M. Michelet. 
All these writers are of a revolutionary cast ; not in a political 
sense merely, but in all senses ; mad, oftentimes, as March 
hares ; crazy with the laughing-gas of recovered liberty ; drunk 
with the wine-cup of their mighty revolution, snorting, whinny- 
ing, throwing up their heels, like wild horses in the boundless 
Pampas, and running races of defiance with snipes, or with the 
winds, or with their own shadows, if they can find nothing else 
to challenge. Some time or other I, that have leisure to read, 
may introduce you, that have not, to two or three dozen of these 
writers ; of whom I can assure you beforehand, that they are 
often profound, and at intervals are even as impassioned as if 
they were come of our best English blood. But now, confining 
our attention to M. Michelet, we in England — who know him 
best by his worst book, the book against priests, &c. — know 
him disadvantageously. That book is a rhapsody of incoherence. 
But his '• History of France " is quite another thing. A man, in 
whatsoever craft he sails, cannot stretch away out of sight when 
he is linked to the windings of the shore by towing ropes of his- 
tory. Facts, and the consequences of facts, draw the writer back 
to the falconer's lure from the giddiest heights of speculation. 
Here, therefore — in his "France" — if not always free from 
flightiness, if now and then off like a rocket for an airy wheel 
in the clouds, M. Michelet, with natural politeness, never forgets 
that he has left a large audience waiting for him on earth, and 
gazing upwards in anxiety for his return : return, therefore, he 
does. But history, though clear of certain temptations in one 
direction, has separate dangers of its own. It is impossible so 
to write a history of France, or of England — works becoming 
every hour more indispensable to the inevitably political man 
of this day — without perilous openings for error. If I, for in- 
stance, on the part of England, should happen to turn my labors 
in that channel, and (on the model of Lord Percy going to Chevy 
Chase) 

"A vow to God should make 

My pleasure in the Michelet woods 

Three summer days to take," 

probably, from simple delirium, I might hunt M. Michelet into 
delirium tremeris. Two strong angels stand by the side of his- 



4 JOAN OF ARC 

tory, whether French histor}' or English, as heraldic supporters : 
the angel of research on the left hand, that must read millions 
of dusty parchments, and of pages blotted with lies ; the angel 
of meditation on the right hand, that must cleanse these lying 
records with fire, even as of old the draperies of asbestos were 
cleansed, and must quicken them into regenerated life. Will- 
ingly I acknowledge that no man will ever avoid innumerable 
errors of detail ; with so vast a compass of ground to traverse, 
this is impossible ; but such errors (though I have a bushel on 
hand, at M. Michelet's service) are not the game I chase; it is 
the bitter and unfair spirit in which M. Michelet writes against 
England. Even that, after all, is but my secondary object; the 
real one is Joanna the Pucelle d'Orleans for herself. 

I am not going to write the History of La Pucelle : to do 
this, or even circumstantially to report the history of her per- 
secution and bitter death, of her struggle with false witnesses 
and with ensnaring judges, it would be necessary to have before 
us all the documents, and therefore the collection only now 
forthcoming in Paris. But my purpose is narrower. There have 
been great thinkers, disdaining the careless judgments of con- 
temporaries, who have thrown themselves boldy on the judgment 
of a far posterity, that should have had time to review, to pon- 
der, to compare. There have been great actors on the stage of 
tragic humanity that might with the same depth of confidence 
have appealed from the levity of compatriot friends — too heart- 
less for the sublime interest of their story, and too impatient 
for the labor of sifting its perplexities — to the magnanimity and 
justice of enemies. To this class belongs the Maid of Arc. The 
ancient Romans were too faithful to the ideal of grandeur in 
themselves not to relent, after a generation or two, before the 
grandeur of Hannibal. Mithridates — a more doubtful person — 
yet merely for the magic perseverance of his indomitable malice, 
won from the same Romans the only real honor that ever he 
received on earth. And we English have ever shown the same 
homage to stubborn enmity. To work unflinchingly for the ruin 
of England; to say through life, by word and by deed, Delenda 
est Anrjlia Victrix ! that one purpose of malice, faithfully pur- 
sued, has quartered some people upon our national funds of hom- 
age as by a perpetual annuity. Better than an inheritance of 
service rendered to England herself, has sometimes proved the 
most insane hatred to England. Hyder Ali, even his son Tippoo, 



JOAN OF ARC 5 

though so far inferior, and Napoleon, have all benefited by this 
disposition amongst ourselves to exaggerate the merit of diabolic 
enmity. Not one of these men was ever capable, in a solitary 
instance, of praising an enemy [what do you say to that, 
reader ?], and yet in their behalf, we consent to forget, not their 
crimes only, but (which is worse) their hideous bigotry and 
anti-magnanimous egotism, for nationality it was not. Suffrein, 
and some half dozen of other French nautical heroes, because 
rightly they did us all the mischief they could (which was 
really great), are names justly reverenced in England. On the 
same principle, La Pucelle d'Orleans, the victorious enemy of 
England, has been destined to receive her deepest commemora- 
tion from the magnanimous justice of Englishmen. 

Joanna, as we in England should call her, but, according to 
her own statement, Jeanne (or, as M. Michelet asserts, Jean) 
D'Arc, was born at Domr^my, a village on the marches of 
Lorraine and Champagne, and dependent upon the town of 
Vaucouleurs. I have called her a Lorrainer, not simply be- 
cause the word is prettier, but because Champagne too odiously 
reminds us English of what are for us imaginary wines, which, 
undoubtedly, La Pucelle tasted as rarely as we English ; we 
English, because the Champagne of London is chiefly grown in 
Devonshire ; La Pucelle, because the Champagne of Cham- 
pagne never, by any chance, flowed into the fountain of Dom- 
remy, from which only she drank. M. Michelet will have her 
to be a Champenoise, and for no better reason than that she 
" took after her father," who happened to be a Champenois. 

These disputes, however, turn on refinements too nice. 
Domr(^my stood upon the frontiers, and, like other frontiers, 
produced a mixed race representing the cis and the trans. A 
river (it is true) formed the boundary-line at this point — the 
river Meuse ; and that, in old days, might have divided the 
populations ; but in these days it did not : there were bridges, 
there were ferries, and weddings crossed from the right bank 
to the left. Here lay two great roads, not so much for travel- 
lers -that were few, as for armies that were too many by half. 
These two roads, one of which was the great high road between 
France and Germany, decussated at this very point; which is 
a learned way of saying, that they formed a St. Andrew's 
cross, or letter X. I hope the compositor will choose a good 
large X 'in which case the point of intersection, the locus of 



6 JOAN OF ARC 

conflux and intersection for these four diverging arms, will fin- 
ish the reader's geographical education, by showing him to a 
hair's-breadth where it was that Domremy stood. Those roads, 
so grandly situated as great trunk arteries between two mighty 
realms, and haunted forever by wars, or rumors of wars, decus- 
sated (for anything I know to the contrary) absolutely under 
Joanna's bedroom window ; one rolling away to the right, past 
Monsieur D' Arc's old barn, and the other unaccountably pre- 
ferring to sweep round that odious man's pigsty to the left. 

On whichever side of the border chance had thrown Joanna, 
the same love to France would have been nurtured. For it is 
a strange fact, noticed by M. Michelet and others, that the 
Dukes of Bar and Lorraine had for generations pursued the 
policy of eternal warfare with France on their own account, yet 
also of eternal amity and league with France, in case anybody 
else presumed to attack her. Let peace settle upon France, and 
before long you might rely upon seeing the little vixen Lor- 
raine flying at the throat of France. Let France be assailed by 
a formidable enemy, and instantly you saw a Duke of Lorraine 
insisting on having his own throat cut in support of France ; 
which favor accordingly was cheerfully granted to him in three 
great successive battles — twice by the English, viz., at Crecy 
and Agincourt, once by the Sultan at Nicopolis. 

This sympathy with France during great eclipses, in those 
that during ordinary seasons were always teasing her with 
brawls and guerilla inroads, strengthened the natural piety to 
France of those that were confessedly the children of her own 
house. The outposts of France, as one may call the great fron- 
tier provinces, were of all localities the most devoted to the 
Fleurs de Lys. To witness, at any great crisis, the generous 
devotion to these lilies of the little fiery cousin that in gentler 
weather was for ever tilting at the breast of France, could not 
but fan the zeal of France's legitimate daughters ; whilst to 
occupy a post of honor on the frontiers against an old, heredi- 
tary enemy of France, would naturally stimulate this zeal by a 
sentiment of martial pride, by a sense of danger always threat- 
ening, and of hatred always smouldering. That great four- 
headed road was a perpetual memento to patriotic ardor. To 
say, this way lies the road to Paris, and that other way to Aix- 
la-Chapelle — this to Prague, that to Vienna — nourished the 
warfare of the heart by daily ministrations of sense. The eye 



JOAN OF ARC 7 

that watched for the gleams of lance or helmet from the hostile 
frontier, the ear that listened for the groaning of wheels, made 
the high road itself, with its relations to centres so remote, into 
a manual of patriotic duty. 

The situation, therefore, locally, of Joanna was full of pro- 
found suggestions to a heart that listened for the stealthy steps 
of change and fear that too surely were in motion. But, if 
the place were grand, the time, the burden of the time, was 
far more so. The air overhead in its upper chambers was hurt- 
Img with the obscure sound ; was dark with sullen fermenting 
of storms that had been gathering for a hundred and thirty 
years. The battle of Agincourt in Joanna's childhood had 
re-opened the wounds of France. Crdcy and Poictiers, those 
withering overthrows for the chivalry of France, had, before 
Agincourt occurred, been tranquillized by more than half a cen- 
tury ; but this resurrection of their trumpet wails made the 
whole series of battles and endless skirmishes take their sta- 
tions as parts in one drama. The graves that had closed sixty 
years ago, seemed to fly open in sympathy with a sorrow that 
echoed their own. The monarchy of France labored in extrem- 
ity, rocked and reeled like a ship fighting with the darkness of 
monsoons. The madness of the poor king (Charles VI) falling 
in at such a crisis, like the case of women laboring in child- 
birth during the storming of a city, trebled the awfulness of 
the time. Even the wild story of the incident which had 
immediately occasioned the explosion of this madness — the 
case of a man unknown, gloomy, and perhaps maniacal himself, 
coming out of a forest at noonday, laying his hand upon the 
bridle of the king's horse, checking him for a moment to say, 
" Oh, king, thou art betrayed," and then vanishing, no man 
knew whither, as he had appeared for no man knew what — 
fell in with the universal prostration of mind that laid France 
on her knees, as before the slow unweaving of some ancient 
prophetic doom. The famines, the extraordinary diseases, the 
insurrections of the peasantry up and down Europe — these 
were chords struck from the same mysterious harp ; but these 
were transitory chords. There have been others of deeper and 
more ominous sound. The termination of the Crusades, the 
destruction of the Templars, the Papal interdicts, the tragedies 
caused or suifered by the house of Anjou, and by the emperor 
— these were full of a more permanent significance. But, since 



8 JOAN OF ARC 

then, the colossal figure of feudalism was seen standing, as it 
were, on tiptoe, at Crecy, for flight from earth : that was a 
revolution unparalleled ; yet that was a triHe, hy comparison 
with the more fearful revolutions that were mining below the 
church. By her own internal schisms, by the abominable spec- 
tacle of a double pope — so that no man, except through politi- 
ical bias, could even guess which was Heaven's vicegerent, and 
which the creature of hell — the church was rehearsing, as in 
still earlier forms she had already rehearsed, those vast rents in 
her foundations which no man should ever heal. 

These were the loftiest peaks of the cloudland in the skies, 
that to the scientific gazer first caught the colors of the new 
morning in advance. But the whole vast range alike of sweep- 
ing glooms overhead dwelt upon all meditative minds, even 
upon those that could not distinguish the tendencies nor deci- 
pher the forms. It was, therefore, not her own age alone, as 
affected by its immediate calamities, that lay with such weight 
upon Joanna's mind : but her own age, as one section in a 
vast mysterious drama, unweaving through a century back, and 
drawing nearer continually to some dreadful crisis. Cataracts 
and rapids were heard roaring ahead ; and signs were seen far 
back, by help of old men's memories, which answered secretly 
to signs now coming forward on the eye, even as locks answer 
to keys. It was not wonderful that in such a haunted solitude, 
with such a haunted heart, Joanna should see angelic visions 
and hear angelic voices These voices whispered to her for- 
ever the duty, self-imposed, of delivering France. Five years 
she listened to these monitory voices with internal struggles. 
At length she could resist no longer. Doubt gave way ; and 
she left her home forever in order to present herself at the 
dauphin's court. 

The education of this poor girl was mean according to the 
present standard ; was ineffably grand, according to a purer 
philosophic standard ; and only not good for our age, because 
for us it would be unattainable. She read nothing, for she 
could not read ; but she had heard others read parts of the 
Roman martyrology. She wept in sympathy with the sad 
Misereres of the Romish church ; she rose to heaven with the 
glad triumphant Te Deums of Rome : she drew her comfort and 
her vital strength from the rites of the same church. But, next 
after these spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advan- 



JOAN OF ARC 9 

tages of her situation. The fountain of Domremy was on the 
brink of a boundless forest ; and it was haunted to that degree by 
fairies, that the parish priest (cure) was obliged to read mass 
there once a year, in order to keep them in any decent bounds. 
Fairies are important, even in a statistical view : certain weeds 
mark poverty in the soil, fairies mark its solitude. As surely as 
the wolf retires before cities, does the fairy sequester herself from 
the haunts of the licensed victualler. A village is too much for 
her nervous delicacy : at most, she can tolerate a distant view 
of a hamlet. We may judge, therefore, by the uneasiness and 
extra trouble which they gave to the parson, in what strength 
the fairies mustered at Domremy ; and, by a satisfactory conse- 
quence, how thinly sown with men and women must have been 
that region even in its inhabited spots. But the forests of 
Domremy — those were the glories of the land, for in them 
abode mysterious power and ancient secrets that towered into 
tragic strength. " Abbeys there were, and abbey windows," — 
"like Moorish temples of the Hindoos," that exercised even 
princely power both in Lorraine and in the German Diets. These 
had their sweet bells that pierced the forests for many a league 
at matins or vespers, and each its own dreamy legend. Few 
enough, and scattered enough, were these abbeys, so as in no 
degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region ; yet many 
enough to spread a network or awning of Christian sanctity over 
what else might have seemed a heathen "wilderness. This sort of 
religious talisman being secured, a man the most afraid of ghosts 
(like myself, suppose, or the reader) becomes armed into cour- 
age to wander for days in their sylvan recesses. The mountains 
of the Vosges, on the eastern frontier of France, have never at- 
tracted much notice from Europe, except in 1813-14 for a few 
brief months, when they fell within Napoleon's line of defence 
against the Allies. But they are interesting for this, amongst 
other features, that they do not, like some loftier ranges, repel 
woods: the forests and the hills are on sociable terms. Live and 
Jet live, is their motto. For this reason, in part, these tracts 
in Lorraine were a favorite hunting-ground with the Carlovin- 
gian princes. About six hundred years before Joanna's child- 
hood, Charlemagne was known to have hunted there. That, of 
itself, was a grand incident in the traditions of a forest or a 
chase. In these vast forests, also, were to be found (if anywhere 
to be found) those mysterious fawns that tempted solitary hunters 



10 JOAN OF ARC 

into visionary and perilous pursuits. Here was seen (if anywhere 
seen) that ancient stag who was already nine hundred years old, 
but possibly a hundred or two more, when met by Charlemagne; 
and the thing was put beyond doubt by the inscription upon 
his golden collar. I believe Charlemagne knighted the stag ; 
and, if ever he is met again by a king, he ought to be made an 
earl — or, being upon the marches of France, a marquis. Ob- 
serve, I don't absolutely vouch for all these things : my own 
opinion varies. On a fine breezy forenoon I am audaciously 
sceptical; but, as twilight sets in, my credulity grows steadily, 
till it becomes equal to anything that could be desired. And I 
have heard candid sportsmen declare that, outside of these very 
forests, they laughed loudly at all the dim tales connected with 
their haunted solitudes ; but, on reaching a spot notoriously 
eighteen miles deep within them, they agreed with Sir Koger 
de Coverley, that a good deal might be said on both sides. 

Such traditions, or any others that (like the stag) connect 
distant generations with each other, are, for that cause, sublime ; 
and the sense of the shadowy, connected with such appearances 
that reveal themselves or not according to circumstances, leaves 
a coloring of sanctity over ancient forests, even in those minds 
that utterly reject the legend as a fact. 

But, apart from all distinct stories of that order, in any soli- 
tary frontier between two great empires, as here, for instance, or 
in the desert between Syria and the Euphrates, there is an in- 
evitable tendency in minds of any deep sensibility to people the 
solitudes with phantom images of powers that were of old so 
vast. Joanna, therefore, in her quiet occupation of a shepherd- 
ess, would be led continually to brood over the political condi- 
tion of her country, by the traditions of the past no less than by 
the mementoes of the local present. 

M. Michelet, indeed, says that La Pucelle was not a shep- 
herdess. I beg his pardon : she ivas. What he rests upon, I 
guess pretty well : it is the evidence of a woman called Hau- 
mette, the most confidential friend of Joanna. Now, she is a 
good witness, and a good girl, and I like her ; for she makes a 
natural and affectionate report of Joanna's ordinary life. But 
still, however good she may be as a witness, Joanna is better ; 
and she, when speaking to the dauphin, calls herself in the 
Latin report Bergereta. Even Haumette confesses that Joanna 
tended sheep in her girlhood. And I believe, that if Miss Hau- 



JOAN OF ARC 11 

mette were taking coffee alone with me this very evening (Feb- 
ruary 12, 1847) — in which there would be no subject for 
scandal nor for maiden blushes, because I am an intense philo- 
sopher, and Miss H. would be hard upon four hundred and fifty 
years old — she would admit the following comment upon her 
evidence to be right. A Frenchman, about forty years ago, M. 
Simond, in his "Travels," mentions incidently the following 
hideous scene as one steadily observed and watched by himself 
in chivalrous France, not very long before the French Revolution : 
A peasant was ploughing ; the team that drew his plough was 
a donkey and a woman. Both were regularly harnessed : both 
pulled alike. This is bad enough ; but the Frenchman adds, 
that, in distributing his lashes, the peasant was obviously desir- 
ous of being impartial ; or, if either of the yoke-fellows had a 
right to complain, certainly it was not the donkey. Now, in 
any country where such degradation of females could be tolerated 
by the state of manners, a woman of delicacy would shrink from 
acknowledging, either for herself or her friend, that she had ever 
been addicted to any mode of labor not strictly domestic ; be- 
cause, if once owning herself a praedial servant, she would be 
sensible that this confession extended by probability in the 
hearer's thoughts to the having incurred indignities of this horri- 
ble kind. Haumette clearly thinks it more dignified for Joanna 
to have been darning the stockings of her horny-hoofed father. 
Monsieur D'Arc, than keeping sheep, lest she might then be 
suspected of having ever done something worse. But, luckily, 
there was no danger of that: Joanna never was in service ; and 
my opinion is that her father should have mended his own 
stockings, since probably he was the party to make holes in 
them, as many a better man than D'Arc does ; meaning by that 
not myself, because, though probably a better man than D'Arc, 
I protest against doing anything of the kind. If I lived even 
with Friday in Juan Fernandez, either Friday must do all the 
darning, or else it must go undone. The better men that I 
meant were the sailors in the British navy, every man of whom 
mends his own stockings. Who else is to do it ? Do you sup- 
pose, reader, that the junior lords of the admiralty are under 
articles to darn for the navy ? 

The reason, meantime, for my systematic hatred of D'Arc is 
this. There was a story current in France before the Revolution, 
framed to ridicule the pauper aristocracy, who happened to have 



12 JOAN OF ARC 

long pedigrees and short rent rolls, viz., that a head of such a 
house, dating from the Crusades, was overheard saying to his son, 
a Chevalier of St. Louis, " Chevalier, as-tu donne au cochon a 
manger! " Now, it is clearly made out by the surviving evidence 
that D'Arc would much have preferred continuing to say, " Ma 
fille, as-tu donne au cochon a manger ? " to saying, " Pucelle 
d' Orleans, as-tu sauve les flevrs-de-lys ? " There is an old Eng- 
lish copy of verses which argues thus : — 

" If the man that turnips cries, 
Cry not when his father dies — 
Then 't is plain the man had rather 
Have a turnip than his father." 

I cannot say that the logic in these verses was ever entirely to 
my satisfaction. I do not see my way through it as clearly as 
could be wished. But I see my Avay most clearly through D'Arc ; 
and the result is — that he would greatly have preferred not 
merely a turnip to his father, but saving a pound or so of bacon 
to saving the Oriflamme of France. 

It is probable (as M. Michelet suggests) that the title of Virgin, 
or Pucelle, had in itself, and apart from the miraculous stories 
about her, a secret power over the rude soldiery and partisan 
chiefs of that period ; for in such a person they saw a repre- 
sentative manifestation of the Virgin Mary, who in a course of 
centuries had grown steadily upon the popular heart. 

As to Joanna's supernatural detection of the dauphin (Charles 
VII) amongst three hundred lords and knights, I am surprised 
at the credulity which could ever lend itself to that theatrical 
juggle. Who admires more than myself the sublime enthusiasm, 
the rapturous faith in herself, of this pure creature ? But I am 
far from admiring stage artifices, which not La Pucelle, but the 
court, must have arranged ; nor can surrender myself to the 
conjurer's legerdemain, such as may be seen every day for a 
shilling. Southey's "Joan of Arc" was published in 1796. 
Twenty years after, talking with Southey, I was surprised to find 
him still owning a secret bias in favor of Joan, founded on her 
detection of the dauphin. The story, for the benefit of the reader 
new to the case, was this : La Pucelle was first made known 
to the dauphin, and presented to his court, at Chinon : and here 
came her first trial. By way of testing her supernatural pre- 
tensions, she was to find out the royal personage amongst the 
whole ark of clean and unclean creatures. Failing in this coup 



JOAN OF ARC 13 

d'essai, she would not simply disappoint many a beating heart in 
the glittering crowd that on diflerent motives yearned for her 
success, but she would ruin herself — and, as the oracle within 
had told her, would, by ruining herself, ruin France. Our own 
sovereign lady Victoria rehearses annually a trial not so severe in 
degree, but the same in kind. She '' pricks " for sheriffs. Joanna 
pricked for a king. But observe the difference : our own Lady 
pricks for two men out of three ; Joanna for one man out of three 
hundred. Happy Lady of the islands and the orient ! — she can 
go astray in her choice only by one half ; to the extent of one 
half she must have the satisfaction of being right. And yet, even 
with these tight limits to the misery- of a boundless discretion, 
permit me, liege Lady, with all loyalty, to submit — that now 
and then you prick with your pin the wrong man. But the poor 
child from Domremy, shrinking under the gaze of a dazzling 
court, — not because dazzling (for in visions she had seen those 
that were more so), but because some of them wore a scoffing 
smile on their features, — how should she throw her line into so 
deep a river to angle for a king, where many a gay creature was 
sporting that masqueraded as a king in dress ? Nay, even more 
than any true king would have done : for, in Southey's version 
of the story, the dauphin says, by way of trying the virgin's mag- 
netic sympathy with royalty, — 

" On the throne, 
I the while mingling with the menial throng, 
Some courtier shall be seated." 

This usurper is even crowned : " The jewelled crown shines on a 
menial's head." But, really, that is " un peufor^t ; " and the mob 
of spectators might raise a scruple whether our friend the jack- 
daw upon the throne, and the dauphin himself, were not grazing 
the shins of treason. For the dauphin could not lend more than 
belonged to him. According to the popular notion, he had no 
crown for himself ; consequently none to lend, on any pretence 
whatever, until the consecrated Maid should take him to Eheims. 
This was the popular notion in France. But, certainly, it was 
the dauphin's interest to support the popular notion, as he meant 
to use the services of Joanna. For, if he Avere king already, what 
was it that she could do for him beyond Orleans ? That is to 
say, what more than a mere milita.ry service coxxld she render 
him ? And, above all, if he were king without a coronation, and 
without the oil from the sacred ampulla, what advantage was yet 



14 JOAN OF ARC 

open to him by celerity above his competitor the English boy ? 
Now was to be a race for a coronation, — he that should win that 
race, carried the superstition of France along with him ; he that 
should first be drawn from the ovens of Rheims was under that 
superstition baked into a king. 

La Pucelle, before she could be allowed to practise as a 
warrior, was put through her manual and platoon exercise, as 
a pupil in divinity, at the bar of six eminent men in wigs. 
According to Southey (v. 393, Book III, in the original edi- 
tion of his Joan of Arc), she "appalled the doctors." It's not 
easy to do that ; but they had some reason to feel bothered, 
as that surgeon would assuredly feel bothered, who, upon pro- 
ceeding to dissect a subject, should find the subject retaliat- 
ing as a dissector upon himself, especially if Joanna ever made 
the speech to them which occupies v. 354-391, Book III. It is 
a double impossibility : 1st, because a piracy from Tindal's 
Christianity as Old as the Creation — a piracy a parte ante, 
and by three centuries ; 2dly, it is quite contrary to the evi- 
dence on Joanna's trial. Southey's Joan, of A. d. 1796 (Cot- 
tle, Bristol), tells the doctors, amongst other secrets, that she 
never in her life attended — 1st, Mass ; nor 2d, the Sacra- 
mental table ; nor 3d, Confession. In the meantime, all this 
deistical confession of Joanna's, besides being suicidal for the 
interest of her cause, is opposed to the depositions upon both 
trials. The very best witness called from first to last de- 
poses that Joanna attended these rites of her church even too 
often ; was taxed with doing so ; and, by blushing, owned the 
charge as a fact, though certainly not as a fault. Joanna was a 
girl of natural piety, that saw God in forests, and hills, and 
fountains ; but did not the less seek him in chapels and conse- 
crated oratories. 

This peasant girl was self-educated through her own natural 
meditativeness. If the reader turns to that divine passage in 
Paradise Regained, which Milton has put into the mouth of 
our Saviour when first entering the wilderness, and musing 
upon the tendency of those great impulses growing within 
himself, — 

"Oh, what a multitiule of thnuffhts at once 
Awaken'd in me swarm, while I consider 
Wliat from witliin I feel myself, and hear 
What from without comes often to my ears, 
111 sorting with my present state compared! 



JOAN OF AliC 15 

When I was yet a child, no childish play 
To me was pleasing; all niv mind was set 
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do 
What might be public good; myself I thought 
Born to that end, " — 

he will have some notion of the vast reveries which brooded 
over the heart of Joanna in early girlhood, when the wings 
were budding that should carry her from Orleans to Rheims ; 
when the golden chariot was dimly revealing itself, that should 
carry her from the kingdom of France Delivered to the eternal 
kingdom. 

It is not requisite for the honor of Joanna, nor is there, in 
this place, room to pursue her brief career of action. That, 
though wonderful, forms the earthly part of her story, — the 
spiritual part is the saintly passion of her imprisonment, trial, 
and execution. It is unfortunate, therefore, for Southey's Joan 
of Arc (which, however, should always be regarded as a jtive- 
nile effort), that, precisely when her real glory begins, the poem 
ends. But this limitation of the interest grew, no doubt, from 
the constraint inseparably attached to the law of epic unity. 
Joanna's history bisects into two opposite hemispheres, and 
both could not have been presented to the eye in one poem, 
unless by sacrificing all unity of theme, or else by involving 
the earlier half, as a narrative episode, in the latter ; which, 
however, might have been done, for it might have been com- 
municated to a fellow-prisoner or a confessor by Joanna her- 
self. It is sufficient, as concerns this section of Joanna's life, 
to say that she fulfilled, to the height of her promises, the 
restoration of the prostrate throne. France had become a pro- 
vince of England ; and for the ruin of both, if such a yoke 
could be maintained. Dreadful pecuniary exhaustion caused 
the English energy to droop ; and that critical opening La 
Pucelle used with a corresponding felicity of audacity and sud- 
denness (that were in themselves portentous) for introducing 
the wedge of French native resources, for rekindling the na- 
tional pride, and for planting the dauphin once more \ipon his 
feet. When Joanna appeared, he had been on the point of giv- 
ing up the struggle with the English, distressed as they were, 
and of flying to the south of France. She taught him to blush 
for such abject counsels. She liberated Orleans, that great city, 
so decisive by its fate for the issue of the war, and then belea- 
guered by the English Avith an elaborate application of engi- 



16 JOAN OF AKC 

neering skill unprecedented in Europe. Entering the city after 
sunset on the 29th of April, she sang mass on Sunday, May 8, 
for the entire disappearance of the besieging force. On the 
29th of June, she fought and gained over the English the deci- 
sive battle of Patay ; on the 9th of July, she took Troyes by a 
coup-de-main from a mixed garrison of English and Burgun- 
dians ; on the 15th of that month, she carried the dauphin 
into Eheims ; on Sunday, the 17th, she crowned him ; and 
there she rested from her labor of triumph. All that was to be 
done, she had now accomplished : what remained was — to 
suffer. 

All this forward movement was her own : excepting one man, 
the whole council was against her. Her enemies were all that 
drew power from earth. Her supporters Avere her own strong 
enthusiasm, and the headlong contagion by which she carried 
this sublime frenzy into the hearts of women, of soldiers, and of 
all who lived by labor. Henceforward she was thwarted ; and 
the worst error that she committed was to lend the sanction of 
her presence to counsels which she had ceased to approve. But 
she had now accomplished the capital objects which her own 
visions had dictated. These involved all the rest. Errors were 
now less important ; and doubtless it had now become more dif- 
ficult for herself to pronounce authentically what were errors. 
The noble girl had achieved, as by a rapture of motion, the cap- 
ital end of clearing out a free space around her sovereign, giving 
him the power to move his arms with effect ; and, secondly, the 
inappreciable end of winning for that sovereign what seemed to 
all France the heavenly ratification of his rights, by crowning 
him with the ancient solemnities. She had made it impossible 
for the English now to step before her. They were caught in 
an irretrievable blunder, owing partly to discord amongst the 
uncles of Henry VI, partly to a want of funds, but partly to 
the very impossibility which they believed to press with tenfold 
force upon any French attempt to forestall theirs. They laughed 
at such a thought ; and whilst they laughed, she did it. Hence- 
forth the single redress for the English of this capital oversight, 
but which never could have redressed it effectually, was, to 
vitiate and taint the coronation of Charles VII as the work of 
a witch. That policy, and not malice (as M. Michelet is so happy 
to believe), was the moving principle in the subsequent prose- 
cution of Joanna. Unless they unhinged the force of the first 



JOAN OF ARC 17 

coronation in the popular mind, by associating it with power given 
from hell, they felt that the sceptre of the invader was broken. 
But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought wonders so 
great for France, was she not elated ? Did she not lose, as men 
so often have lost, all sobriety of mind when standing upon the 
pinnacle of success so giddy ? Let her enemies declare. During 
the progress of her movement, and in the centre of ferocious 
struggles, she had manifested the temper of her feelings by the 
pity which she had everywhere expressed for the suffering en- 
emy. She forwarded to the English leaders a touching invitation 
to unite with the French, as brothers, in a common crusade 
against infidels, thus opening the road for a soldierly retreat. 
She interposed to protect the captive or the wounded — she 
mourned over the excesses of her countrymen — she threw her- 
self off her horse to kneel by the dying English soldier, and to 
comfort him with such ministrations, physical or spiritual, as 
his situation allowed. " Nolebat," says the evidence, " uti ense 
suo, aut quemquam interficere." She sheltered the English that 
invoked her aid in her own quarters. She wept as she beheld, 
stretched on the field of battle, so many brave enemies that had 
died without confession. And, as regarded herself, her elation 
expressed itself thus: — On the day when she had finished her 
work, she wept ; for she knew that, when her triumphal task 
was done, her end must be approaching. Her aspirations pointed 
only to a place which seemed to her more than usually full of 
natural piety as one in which it would give her pleasure to die. 
And she uttered, between smiles and tears, as a wish that 
inexpressibly fascinated her heart, and yet was half fantastic, a 
broken prayer that God would return her to the solitudes from 
which he had drawn her, and suffer her to become a shepherdess 
once more. It was a natural prayer, because nature has laid a 
necessity upon every human heart to seek for rest, and to shrink 
from torment. Yet, again, it was a half-fantastic prayer, because, 
from childhood upwards, visions that she had no power to mis- 
trust, and the voices which sounded in her ear forever, had long 
since- persuaded her mind that for her no such prayer could be 
granted. Too well she felt that her mission must be worked out 
to the end, and that the end was now at hand. All went wrong 
from this time. She herself had created the funds out of which 
the French restoration should grow ; but she was not suffered 
to witness their development, or their prosperous application. 



18 JOAN OF ARC 

More than one military plan was entered upon wliicli she did 
not approve. But she still continued to expose her person as 
before. Severe vi^ounds had not taught her caution. And at 
length, in a sortie from Compiegne (whether through treacherous 
collusion on the part of her own friends is doubtful to this day), 
she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and finally surren- 
dered to the English. 

Now came her trial. This trial, moving of course under Eng- 
lish influence, was conducted in chief by the Bishop of Beauvais. 
He was a Frenchman, sold to English interests, and hoping, by 
favor of the English leaders, to reach the highest preferment. 
Bishop that art, Ardihlslio}) that shalt he, Cardinal that 
Tnayest he, were the words that sounded continually in his ear ; 
and doubtless, a whisper of visions still higher, of a triple crown, 
and feet upon the necks of kings, sometimes stole into his heart. 
M. Michelet is anxious to keep us in mind that this bishop was 
but an agent of the English. True. But it does not better the 
case for his countryman — that, being an accomplice in the crime, 
making himself the leader in the persecution against the helpless 
girl, he was willing to be all this in the spirit, and with the 
conscious vileness of a cat's paw. Never from the foundations of 
the earth was there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in 
all its beauty of defence, and all its hellishness of attack. Oh, 
child of France ! shepherdess, peasant girl ! trodden under foot 
by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing intellect, quick as 
God's lightning, and true as God's lightning to its mark, that 
ran before France and laggard Europe by many a century, con- 
founding the malice of the ensnarer, and making dumb the ora- 
cles of falsehood! Is it not scandalous, is it not humiliating to 
civilization, that, even at this day, France exhibits the horrid 
spectacle of judges examining the prisoner against himself; se- 
ducing him, by fraud, into treacherous conclusions against his own 
head : using the terrors of their power for extorting confessions 
from the frailty of hope ; nay (which is worse) using the bland- 
ishments of condescension and snaky kindness for thawing into 
compliances of gratitude those whom they had failed to freeze 
into terror? Wicked judges! Barbarian jurisprudence! that, 
sitting in your own conceit on the summits of social wisdom, 
have yet failed to learn the first principles of criminal justice ; 
sit ye humbly and with docility at the feet of this girl from 
Domremy, that tore your webs of cruelty into shreds and dust. 



JOAN OF ARC 19 

" Would you examine me as a witness against myself ? " was the 
question by which many times she defied their arts. Contin- 
ually she showed that their interrogations were irrelevant to any 
business before the court, or that entered into the ridiculous 
charges against her. General questions were proposed to her on 
points of casuistical divinity ; two-edged questions, which not 
one of themselves could have answered without, on the one side, 
landing himself in heresy (as then interpreted), or, on the other, 
in some presumptuous expression of self-esteem. Next came a 
wretched Dominican, that pressed her with an objection, which, 
if applied to the Bible, would tax every one of its miracles with 
unsoundness. The monk had the excuse of never having read 
the Bible. M. Michelet has no such excuse ; and it makes one 
blush for him, as a philosopher, to find him describing such an 
argument as " weighty," whereas it is but a varied expression 
of rude Mahometan metaphysics. Her answer to this, if there 
were room to place the whole in a clear light, was as shattering 
as it was rapid. Another thought to entrap her by asking what 
language the angelic visitors of her solitude had talked ; as 
though heavenly counsels could want polyglot interpreters for 
every word, or that God needed language at all in whispering 
thoughts to a human heart. Then came a worse devil, who 
asked her whether the archangel Michael had appeared naked. 
Not comprehending the vile insinuation, Joanna, whose pov- 
erty suggested to her simplicity that it might be the costliness 
of suitable robes which caused the demur, asked them if they 
fancied God, who clothed the flowers of the valleys, unable to 
find raiment for his servants. The answer of Joanna moves a 
smile of tenderness, but the disappointment of her judges makes 
one laugh exultingly. Others succeeded by troops, who up- 
braided her with leaving her father ; as if that greater Father, 
whom she believed herself to have been serving, did not retain 
the power of dispensing with his own rules, or had not said, 
that, for a less cause than martyrdom, man and woman should 
leave both father and mother. 

Ori Easter Sunday, when the trial had been long proceeding, 
the poor girl fell so ill as to cause a belief that she had been 
poisoned. It was not poison. Nobody had any interest in has- 
tening a death so certain. M. Michelet, whose sympathies with 
all feelings are so quick that one would gladly see them always 
as justly directed, reads the case most truly. Joanna had a two- 



20 JOAN OF ARC 

fold malady. She was visited by a paroxysm of the complaint 
called hornesickness ; the cruel nature of her imprisonment, 
and its length, could not but point her solitary thoughts, in 
darkness and in chains (for chained she Avas), to Domremy. 
And the season, which was the most heavenly period of the 
spring, added stings to this yearning. That was one of her 
maladies — nostalgia, as medicine calls it ; the other was weari- 
ness and exhaustion from daily combats with malice. She saw 
that everybody hated her, and thirsted for her blood; nay, 
many kind-hearted creatures that would have pitied her pro- 
foundly, as regarded all political charges, had their natural feel- 
ings warped by the belief that she had dealings with fiendish 
powers. She knew she was to die ; that was 7iot the misery : 
the misery was that this consummation could not be reached with- 
out so much intermediate strife, as if she were contending for 
some chance (where chance was none) of happiness, or were 
dreaming for a moment of escaping the inevitable. Why, then, 
did she contend? Knowing that she would reap nothing from 
answering her persecutors, why did she not retire by silence 
from the superfluous contest ? It was because her quick and 
eager loyalty to truth would not suffer her to see it darkened by 
frauds, which she could expose, but others, even of candid lis- 
teners, perhaps could not ; it was through that imperishable gran- 
deur of soul, which taught her to submit meekly and without a 
struggle to her punishment, but taught her 7iot to submit — no, 
not for a moment — to calumny as to facts, or to misconstruc- 
tion as to motives. Besides, there were secretaries all around the 
court taking down her words. That was meant for no good to 
her. But the end does not always correspond to the meaning. 
And Joanna might say to herself, "These words that will be used 
against me to-morrow and the next day perhaps in some nobler 
generation may rise again for my justification." Yes, Joanna, 
they a7'e rising even now in Paris, and for more than justification. 
Woman, sister — there are some things which you do not 
execute as well as your brother, man; no, nor ever will. Par- 
don me, if I doubt whether you will ever produce a great poet 
from your choirs, or a Mozart, or a Phidias, or a Michael An- 
gelo, or a great philosopher, or a great scholar. By which last 
is meant, not one who depends simply on an infinite memory, 
but also on an infinite and electrical power of combination ; 
bringing together from the four winds, like the angel of the 



JOAN OF AKC 21 

resurrection, what else were dust from dead men's bones, into 
the unity of breathing life. If you can create yourselves into 
any of these great creators, why have you not ? 

Yet, sister woman, though I cannot consent to find a Mozart 
or a Michael Angelo in your sex, cheerfully, and with the love 
that burns in the depths of admiration, I acknowledge that 
you can do one thing as well as the best of us men, a greater 
thing than even Milton is known to have done, or Michael 
Angelo, — you can die grandly, and as goddesses would die, 
were goddesses mortal. If any distant worlds (which may be 
the case) are so far ahead of us Tellurians in optical resources, 
as to see distinctly through their telescopes all that we do on 
earth, what is the grandest sight to which we ever treat 
them ? St. Peter's at Rome, do you fancy, on Easter Sunday, 
or Luxor, or perhaps the Himalayas ? Oh, no ! my friend, 
suggest something better ; these are baubles to them, ; they see 
in other worlds, in their own, far better toys of the same kind. 
These, take my word for it, are nothing. Do you give it up ? 
The finest thing, then, we have to show them, is a scaff'old on 
the morning of execution. I assure you there is a strong mus- 
ter in those far telescopic worlds, on any such morning, of those 
who happen to find themselves occupying the right hemisphere 
for a peep at us. How, then, if it be announced in some such 
telescopic world by those who make a livelihood of catching 
glimpses at our newspapers, whose language they have long since 
deciphered, that the poor victim in the morning's sacrifice is a 
woman ? How, if it be published in that distant world, that 
the suff'erer wears upon her head, in the eyes of many, the 
garlands of martyrdom ? How, if it should be some Marie 
Antoinette, the widowed queen, coming forward on the scaff'old, 
and presenting to the morning air her head turned gray by sor- 
row, daughter of Caesars kneeling down humbly to kiss the 
guillotine, as one that worships death ? How, if it were the 
noble Charlotte Corday, that in the bloom of youth, that with 
the loveliest of persons, that with homage waiting upon her 
smiles wherever she turned her face to scatter them, — homage 
that followed those smiles as surely as the carols of birds, after 
showers in spring, follow the reappearing sun, and the racing of 
sunbeams over the hills, — yet thought all these things cheaper 
than the dust upon her sandals, in comparison of deliverance 
from hell for her dear sufi"ering France ! Ah ! these were spec- 



22 JOA.N OF ARC 

tacles indeed for those sympathizing people in distant worlds ; 
and some, perhaps, -would sutler a sort of martyrdom themselves, 
because they could not testify their wrath, could not bear wit- 
ness to the strength of love and to the fury of hatred that 
burned within them at such scenes, could not gather into 
golden urns some of that glorious dust which rested in the cata- 
combs of earth. 

On the Wednesday after Trinity Sunday in 1431, being then 
about nineteen years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her 
martyrdom. She was conducted before mid-day, guarded by 
eight hundred spearmen, to a platform of prodigious height, 
constructed of wooden billets supported by occasional walls of 
lath and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every direc- 
tion for the creation of air-currents. The pile " struck terror," 
says M. Michelet, " by its height ; " and, as usual, the English 
purpose in this is viewed as one of pure malignity. But there 
are two ways of explaining all that. It is probable that the 
purpose was merciful. On the circumstances of the execution 
I shall not linger. Yet, to mark the almost fatal felicity of M. 
Michelet in finding out whatever may injure the English name, 
at a moment when every reader will be interested in Joanna's 
personal appearance, it is really edifying to notice the ingenuity 
by which he draws into light from a dark corner a very unjust 
account of it, and neglects, though lying upon the high road, a 
very pleasing one. Both are from English pens. Grafton, a 
chronicler but little read, being a stiff-necked John Bull, thought 
fit to say that no wonder Joanna should be a virgin, since her 
" foule face " was a satisfactory solution of that particular merit. 
Holinshed, on the other hand, a chronicler somewhat later, 
every way more important, and at one time universally read, 
has given a very pleasing testimony to the interesting character 
of Joanna's person and engaging manners. Neither of these 
men lived till the following century, so that personally this evi- 
dence is none at all. Grafton sullenly and carelessly believed 
as he wished to believe ; Holinshed took pains to inquire, and 
reports undoubtedly the general impression of France. But I 
cite the case as illustrating M. Michelet's candor. 

The circumstantial incidents of the execution, unless with 
more space than I can now command, I should be unwilling to 
relate. I should fear to injure, by imperfect report, a martyr- 
dom which to myself appears so unspeakably grand. Yet for a 



JOAN OF ARC 23 

purpose, pointing not at Joanna, but at M. Michelet — viz. , to 
convince him that an Englishman is capable of thinking more 
highly of La Pucelle than even her admiring countryman — I 
shall, in parting, allude to one or two traits in Joanna's demeanor 
on the scaffold, and to one or two in that of the bystanders, 
which authorize me in questioning an opinion of his upon this 
martyr's firmness. The reader ought to be reminded that Jo- 
anna D'Arc was subjected to an unusually unfair trial of opin- 
ion. Any of the elder Christian martyrs had not much to fear 
of personal rancor. The martyr was chiefly regarded as the 
enemy of Caesar ; at times also, where any knowledge of the 
Christian faith and morals existed, with the enmity that arises 
spontaneously in the worldly against the spiritual. But the 
martyr, though disloyal, was not supposed to be, therefore, 
anti-national ; and still less M'as individually hateful. What 
was hated ( if anything ) belonged to his class, not to himself 
separately. Now, Joanna, if hated at all, was hated personally, 
and in Rouen on national grounds. Hence there would be a 
certainty of calumny arising against her, such as would not 
affect martyrs in general. That being the case, it would follow 
of necessity that some people would impute to her a willingness 
to recant. No innocence could escape that. Now, had she 
really testified this willingness on the scaffold, it would have 
argued nothing at all but the weakness of a genial nature 
shrinking from the instant approach of torment. And those 
will often pity that weakness most, who, in their own persons, 
would yield to it least. Meantime, there never was a calumny 
uttered that drew less support from the recorded circumstances. 
It rests upon no positive testimony, and it has a weight of 
contradicting testimony to stem. And yet, strange to say, M. 
Michelet, who at times seems to admire the Maid of Arc as 
much as I do, is the one sole writer amongst her friends who 
lends some countenance to this odious slander. His words are, 
that, if she did not utter this word recant with her lips, she 
uttered it in her heart. " Whether she said the word is uncer- 
tain ;' but I affirm that she thought it." 

Now, I affirm that she did not ; not in any sense of the word 
" thought " applicable to the case. Here is France calumniating 
La Pucelle ; here is England defending her. M. Michelet can 
only mean that, on a priori principles, every woman must be 
liable to such a weakness ; that Joanna was a woman ; ergo, 



24 JOAN OF ARC 

that she was liable to such a weakness. That is, he only sup- 
poses her to have uttered the word by an argument which pre- 
sumes it impossible for anybody to have done otherwise. I, on 
tlie contrary, throw the onus of the argument not on presumable 
tendencies of nature, but on the known facts of that morning's 
execution, as recorded by multitudes. What else, I demand, 
than mere weight of metal, absolute nobility of deportment, 
broke the vast line of battle then arrayed against her ? What 
else but her meek, saintly demeanor won from the enemies, that 
till now had believed her a witch, tears of rapturous admiration ? 
" Ten thousand men," says M. Michelet himself, " ten thousand 
men wept ; " and of these ten thousand the majority were politi- 
cal enemies knitted together by cords of superstition. W^hat else 
was it but her constancy, united with her angelic gentleness, 
that drove the fanatic English soldier — who had sworn to 
throw a faggot on her scaffold, as his tribute of abhorrence, that 
did so, that fulfilled his vow — suddenly to turn away a peni- 
tent for life, saying everywhere that he had seen a dove rising 
upon wings to heaven from the ashes where she had stood ? 
What else drove the executioner to kneel at every shrine for 
pardon to his share in the tragedy ! And if all this were insuf- 
ficient, then I cite the closing act of her life as valid on her 
behalf, were all other testimonies against her. The executioner 
had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. 
The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing volumes. A Do- 
minican monk was then standing almost at her side. Wrapped 
up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still per- 
sisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last enemy was 
racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment did 
this noblest of girls think only for him, the one friend that 
would not forsake her, and not for herself ; bidding him Avith 
her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave 
her to God. That girl, whose latest breath ascended in this 
sublime expression of self-oblivion, did not utter the word re- 
cant either with her lips or in her heart. No; she did not, 
though one should rise from the dead to swear it. 

Bishop of Beauvais! thy victim died in fire upon a scaffold 
— thou upon a down bed. But for the departing minutes of 
life, both are oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when the 
gates of death are opening, and flesh is resting from its struggles, 



JOAN OF ARC 25 

oftentimes the tortured and torturer have the same truce from 
carnal torment ; both sink together into sleep ; together both, 
sometimes, kindle into dreams. When the mortal mists were 
gathering fast upon you two, bishop and shepherd girl — when 
the pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy curtains 
about you — let us try, through the gigantic glooms, to deci- 
pher the flying features of your separate visions. 

The shepherd girl that had delivered France — she, from her 
dungeon, she, from her baiting at the stake, she, from her duel 
with fire, as she entered her last dream — saw Domremy, saw 
the fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests in which 
her childhood had wandered. That Easter festival, which man 
had denied to her languishing heart — that resurrection of 
springtime, which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted 
from her, hungering after the glorious liberty of forests — were 
by God given back into her hands, as jewels that had been 
stolen from her by robbers. With those, perhaps (for the min- 
utes of dreams can stretch into ages), was given back to her by 
God the bliss of childhood. By special privilege, for her might 
be created, in this farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent 
as the first ; but not, like that^ sad with the gloom of a fearful 
mission in the rear. The mission had now been fulfilled. The 
storm was weathered, the skirts even of that mighty storm were 
drawing off. The blood that she was to reckon for had been ex- 
acted ; the tears that she was to shed in secret had been paid to 
the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced stead- 
ily, had been suffered, had been survived. And in her last fight 
upon the scaffold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously 
she had tasted the stings of death. For all, except this com- 
fort from her farewell dream, she had died — died, amidst the 
tears of ten thousand enemies — died, amidst the drums and 
trumpets of armies — died, amidst peals redoubling upon peals, 
volleys upon volleys, from the saluting clarions of martyrs. 

Bishop of Beauvais ! because the guilt-burdened man is in 
dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes, 
and because upon that fluctuating mirror — rising (like the mock- 
ing mirrors of mirage in Arabian deserts) from the fens of death 
— most of all are reflected the sweet countenances which the man 
has laid in ruins ; therefore I know, bishop, that you also, en- 
tering your final dream, saw Domremy. That fountain, of which 
the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your eyes in pure 



26 JOAN OF ARC 

morning dews ; but neither dews, nor the holy dawn, could cleanse 
away the bright spots of innocent blood upon its surface. By 
the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated, that hid her face. 
But as you draw near, the woman raises her Avasted features. 
Would Domremy know them again for the features of her child ? 
Ah, but you know them, bishop, well ! Oh, mercy ! what a groan 
was that which the servants, waiting outside the bishop's dream 
at his bedside, heard from his laboring heart, as at this moment 
he turned away from the fountain and the woman, seeking rest 
in the forests afar off ! Yet not so to escape the woman, whom 
once again he must behold before he dies. In the forests to which 
he prays for pity, will he find a respite ? "What a tumult, wliat 
a gathering of feet is there ! In glades, where only wild deer 
should run, armies and nations are assembling ; towering in the 
fluctuating crowd are phantoms that belong to departed hours. 
There is the great English Prince, Regent of France. There is 
my Lord of Winchester, the princely cardinal, that died and made 
no sign. ■ There is the Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter 
of thickets. What building is that which hands so rapid are 
raising ? Is it a martyr's scaffold ? Will they burn the child 
of Domremy a second time? No: it is a tribunal that rises to 
the clouds ; and two nations stand around it waiting for a trial. 
Shall my Lord of Beauvais sit again upon the judgment-seat, 
and again number the hours for the innocent ? Ah ! no : he is 
the prisoner at the bar. Already all is waiting: the mighty 
audience is gathered, the Court is hurrying to their seats, the 
Avitnesses are arrayed, the trumpets are sounding, the judge is 
taking his place. Oh ! but this is sudden. My lord, have you 
no counsel ? " Counsel I have none : in heaven above, or on 
earth beneath, counsellor there is none noAv that Avould take a 
brief from me .• all are silent." Is it, indeed, come to this ? Alas, 
the time is short, the tumult is Avondrous, the croAvd stretches 
away into infinity, but yet 1 Avill search in it for somebody to 
take your brief : I knoAV of somebody that Avill be your counsel. 
Who is this that cometh from Domremy ? Who is she in bloody 
coronation robes from Bheims ? Who is she that cometh Avith 
blackened flesh from Avalking tlie furnaces of Rouen ? This is 
she, the shepherd girl, counsellor that had none for herself, 
Avhom I choose, bishop, for yours. She it is, I engage, that 
shall take my lord's brief. She it is, bishop, that Avould plead 
for you : yes, bishop, she — Avhen heaven and earth are silent. 



THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

SECTIOI^ THE FIRST— THE GLOKY OF MOTION 

Some twenty or more years before I matriculated at Oxford, 
Mr. Palmer, at that time M. P. for Bath, had accomplished 
two things, very hard to do on our little planet, the Earth, 
however cheap they may be held by eccentric people in comets, 
— he had invented mail-coaches, and he had married the daugh- 
ter of a duke. He was, therefore, just twice as great a man as 
Galileo, who did certainly invent (or which is the same thing, 
discover) the satellites of Jupiter, those very next things extant 
to mail-coaches in the two capital pretensions of speed and keep- 
ing time, but, on the other hand, who did not marry the daugh- 
ter of a duke. 

These mail-coaches, as organized by Mr. Palmer, are entitled 
to a circumstantial notice from myself, having had so large a 
share in developing the anarchies of my subsequent dreams, — 
an agency which they accomplished, first, through velocit}^, at 
that time unprecedented — for they first revealed the glory of 
motion; secondly, through grand effects for the eye between 
lamplight and the darkness upon solitary roads ; thirdly, tlirough 
animal beauty and power so often displayed in the class of horses 
selected for this mail service ; fourthly, through the conscious 
presence of a central intellect, that — in the midst of vast 
distances, of storms, of darkness, of danger — overruled all 
obstacles into one steady cooperation to a national result. For 
my own feeling, this post-office service spoke as by some 
mighty orchestra, where a thousand instruments, all disregard- 
ing each other, and so far in danger of discord, yet all obedient 
as slaves to the supreme baton of some great leader, terminate 
in a perfection of harmony like that of heart, brain, and lungs, 
in a healthy animal organization. But, finally, that particular 
element in this whole combination which most impres.sed 
myself, and through which it is that to this hour Mr. Palmer's 
mail-coach system tyrannizes over my dreams by terror and 



28 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

terrific beauty, lay in the awful political mission which at that 
time it fulfilled. The mail-coach it was that distributed over 
the face of the land, like the opening of apocalyptic vials, the 
heart-shaking news of Trafalgar, of Salamanca, of Vittoria, of 
Waterloo. These were the harvests that, in the grandeur of 
their reaping, redeemed the tears and blood in which they had 
been sown. Neither was the meanest peasant so much below 
the grandeur and the sorrow of the times as to confound bat- 
tles such as these, which were gradually moulding the destinies 
of Christendom, with the vulgar conflicts of ordinary warfare, 
so often no more than gladiatorial trials of national prowess. 
The victories of England in this stupendous contest rose of 
themselves as natural Te Dermis to heaven ; and it was felt by 
the thoughtful that such victories, at such a crisis of general 
prostration, were not more beneficial to ourselves than finally to 
France, our enemy, and to the nations of all western or central 
Europe, through whose pusillanimity it was that the French 
domination had prospered. 

The mail-coach, as the national organ for publishing these 
mighty events thus diffusively influential, became itself a spirit- 
ualized and glorified object to an impassioned heart ; and naturally, 
in the Oxford of that day, all hearts were impassioned, as being 
all ( or nearly all ) in early manhood. In most universities 
there is one single college ; in Oxford there were five-and-twenty, 
all of which were peopled by young men, the elite of their own 
generation, — not boys, but men ; none under eighteen. In 
some of these many colleges, the custom permitted the student 
to keep what are called " short terms ; " that is, the four terms 
of Michaelmas, Lent, Easter, and Act, were kept by a residence, 
in the aggregate of ninety-one days, or thirteen weeks. Under 
this interrupted residence, it was possible that a student might 
have a reason for going down to his home four times in the 
year. This made eight journeys to and fro. But, as the 
homes lay dispersed through all the shires of the island, and 
most of us disdained all coaches except his majesty's mail, no 
city out of London could pretend to so extensive a connection 
with Mr. Palmer's establishment as Oxford. Three mails, at 
the least, I remember as passing every day through Oxford, 
and benefiting by my personal patronage, — viz., the Worcester, 
the Gloucester, and the Holyhead mail. Naturally, therefore, 
it became a point of some interest with us, whose journeys re- 



THE ('.LORY OF MOTIOX 29 

volved every six weeks on an average, to look a little into the 
executive details of the system. With some of these Mr. Palmer 
had no concern ; they rested upon by-laws enacted by posting- 
houses for their own benefit, and upon other by-laws, equally 
stern, enacted by the inside passengers for the illustration of 
their own haughty exclusiveness. These last were of a nature 
to rouse our scorn, from which the transition was not very long 
to systematic mutiny. Up to this time, say 1804 or 1805 (the 
year of Trafalgar), it had been the fixed assumption of the four 
inside people ( as an old tradition of all public carriages derived 
from the reign of Charles II), that they, the illustrious quater- 
nion, constituted a porcelain variety of the human race, whose 
dignity would have been compromised by exchanging one word 
of civility with the three miserable delf-ware outsides. Even 
to have kicked an outsider, might have been held to attaint 
the foot concerned in that operation ; so that, perhaps, it would 
have required an act of Parliament to restore its purity of blood. 
What words, then, could express the horror, and the sense of 
treason, in that case, which had happened, where all three out- 
sides ( the trinity of Pariahs ) made a vain attempt to sit down 
at the same breakfast-table or dinner-table with the consecrated 
four ? I myself witnessed such an attempt ; and on that occa- 
sion a benevolent old gentleman endeavored to soothe his three 
holy associates, by suggesting that, if the outsides were indicted 
for this criminal attempt at the next assizes, the court would 
regard it as a case of lunacy, or delirium tremens, rather than 
of treason. England owes much of her grandeur to the depth 
of the aristocratic element in her social composition, when pull- 
ing against her strong democracy. I am not the man to laugh 
at it. But sometimes, undoubtedly, it expressed itself in comic 
shapes. The course taken Avith the infatuated outsiders, in the 
particular attempt which I have noticed, was, that the waiter, 
beckoning them away from the privileged salle-h-manger, sang 
out, "This way, my good men," and then enticed these good 
men away to the kitchen. But that plan had not always an- 
swered. Sometimes, though rarely, cases occurred where the 
intruders, being stronger than usual, or more vicious than usual, 
resolutely refused to budge, and so far carried their point as to 
have a separate table arranged for themselves in a corner of the 
general room. Yet, if an Indian screen could be found ample 
enough to plant them put from the very eyes of the high table, 



30 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

or dais, it then became possible to assume as a fiction of law — 
that the three delf fellows, after all, were not present. They 
could be ignored by the porcelain men, under the maxim, that 
objects not appearing, and not existing, are governed by the 
same logical construction. 

Such being, at that time, the usages of mail-coaches, what 
was to be done by us of young Oxford ? We, the most aristo- 
cratic of people, who were addicted to the practice of looking 
down superciliously even upon the insides themselves as often 
very questionable characters — were we, by voluntarily going 
outside, to court indignities ? If our dress and bearing shel- 
tered us, generally, from the suspicion of being "raff" (the 
name at that period for " snobs "), we really we7'e such con- 
structively, by the place we assumed. If we did not submit to 
the deep shadow of eclipse, we entered at least the skirts of its 
penumbra. And the analogy of theatres was valid against us, 
where no man can complain of the annoyances incident to the 
pit or gallery, having his instant remedy in paying the higher 
price of the boxes. But the soundness of this analogy we dis- 
puted. In the case of the theatre, it cannot be pretended that 
the inferior situations have any separate attractions, unless the 
pit may be supposed to have an advantage for the purposes of 
the critic or the dramatic reporter. But the critic or reporter 
is a rarity. For most people, the sole benefit is in the price. 
Now, on the contrary, the outside of the mail had its own 
incommunicable advantages. These we could not forego. The 
higher price we would willingly have paid, but not the price 
connected with the condition of riding inside ; which condition 
we pronounced insufferable. The air, the freedom of prospect, 
the proximity to the horses, the elevation of seat — these were 
Avhat we required ; but, above all, the certain anticipation of 
purchasing occasional opportunities of driving. 

Such was the difficulty which pressed us ; and under the 
coercion of this difficulty, we instituted a searching inquiry 
into the true quality and valuation of the different apartments 
about the mail. We conducted this inquiry on metaphysical 
principles ; and it was ascertained satisfactorily that the roof 
of the coach, which by some weak men had been called the 
attics, and by some the garrets, was in reality the drawing- 
room ; in which drawing-room the box was the chief ottoman 
or sofa ; whilst it appeared that the insida, which had been 



THE GLORY OF MOTION 31 

traditionally regarded as the only room tenantable by gentlemen, 
was, in fact, the coal-cellar in disguise. 

Great wits jump. The very same idea had not long before 
struck the Celestial intellect of China. Amongst the presents 
carried out by our first embassy to that country was a state- 
coach. It had been specially selected as a personal gift by 
George III ; but the exact mode of using it was an immense 
mystery to Pekin. The ambassador, indeed (Lord Macartney), 
had made some imperfect explanations upon this point ; but, 
as his excellency communicated these in a diplomatic whisper 
at the very moment of his departure, the Celestial intellect 
was very feebly illuminated, and it became necessary to call a 
cabinet council on the grand state question, " Where was the 
emperor to sit ? " The hammer-cloth happened to be unusually 
gorgeous ; and partly on that consideration, but partly also 
because the box offered the most elevated seat, was nearest to 
the moon, and undeniably went foremost, it was resolved by 
acclamation that the box was the imperial throne, and for the 
scoundrel who drove, he might sit where he could find a perch. 
The horses, therefore, being harnessed, solemnly his imperial 
majesty ascended his new English throne under a flourish of 
trumpets, having the first lord of the treasury on his right 
hand, and the chief jester on his left. Pekin gloried in the 
spectacle ; and in the whole flowery people, constructively 
present by representation, there was but one discontented per- 
son, and that was the coachman. This mutinous individual 
audaciously shouted, "Where am I to sit?" But the privy 
council, incensed by his disloyalty, unanimously opened the 
door, and kicked him into the inside. He had all the inside 
places to himself ; but such is the rapacity of ambition, that he 
was still dissatisfied. "I say," he cried out in an extempore 
petition, addressed to the emperor through the window, — "I 
say, how am I to catch hold of the reins ? " — "Anyhow," was 
the imperial answer; "don't trouble me, man, in my glory. 
How catch the reins ? Why, through the windows, through 
the'keyholes — awyhow." Finally this contumacious coachman 
lengthened the check-strings into a sort of jury-reins, commu- 
nicating with the horses ; with these he drove as steadily as 
Pekin had any right to expect. The emperor returned after 
the briefest of circuits ; he descended in great pomp from his 
throne with the severest resolution never to remount it. A 



32 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

public thanksgiving was ordered for his majesty's happy escape 
from the disease of broken neck ; and the state-coach was dedi- 
cated thenceforward as a votive offering to the god Fo, Fo — 
whom the learned more accurately called Fi, Fi. 

A revolution of this same Chinese character did young 
Oxford of that era effect in the constitution of mail-coach soci- 
ety. It was a perfect French revolution ; and we had good rea- 
son to say, fa Ira. In fact, it soon became too popular. The 
"public," — a well-known character, particularly disagreeable, 
though slightly respectable, and notorious for affecting the 
chief seats in synagogues, — had at first loudly opposed this 
revolution ; but when the opposition showed itself to be inef- 
fectual, our disagreeable friend went into it with headlong zeal. 
At first it was a sort of race between us ; and, as the public is 
usually from thirty to fifty years old, naturally we of young 
Oxford, that averaged about twenty, had the advantage. Then 
the public took to bribing, giving fees to horse-keepers, &c., 
who hired out their persons as warming-pans on the box-seat. 
That, you know, was shocking to all moral sensibilities. 
Come to bribery, said we, and there is an end to all morality, 
Aristotle's, Zeno's, Cicero's, or anybody's. And, besides, of 
what use was it ? For ice bribed also. And as our bribes to 
those of the public were as five shillings to sixpence, here 
again young Oxford had the advantage. But the contest was 
ruinous to the principles of the stables connected with the 
mails. This whole corporation was constantly bribed, rebribed, 
and often sur-rebribed ; a mail-coach yard was like the hustings 
in a contested election ; and a horse-keeper, hostler, or helper 
was held by the philosophical at that time to be the most cor- 
rupt character in the nation. 

There was an impression upon the public mind, natural 
enough from the continually augmenting velocity of the mail,y 
but quite erroneous, that an outside seat on this class of car- 
riages was a post of danger. On the contrary, I maintained that, 
if a man had become nervous from some gipsy prediction in his 
childhood, allocating to a particular moon now approaching some 
unknown danger, and he should inquire earnestly, "W'hitlier 
can I fly for shelter ? Is a prison the safest retreat ? or a luna- 
tic hospital? or the British Museum? " I should have replied, 
" Oh, no; I'll tell you what to do. Take lodgings for the next 
forty days on the box ©f His Majesty's mail. Nobody ean touch 



THE GLORY OF MOTION 33 

you there. If it is by bills at ninety days after date that you 
are made unhappy — if noters and protesters are the sort of 
wretches whose astrological shadows darken the house of life — 
then note you what I vehemently protest ; viz., that no mat- 
ter though the sheriff and under-sheriii' in every county should 
be running after you with his j^osse, touch a hair of your head 
he cannot whilst you keep house, and have your legal domicile 
on the box of the mail. It is felony to stop the mail ; even the 
sheriff cannot do that. And an extra touch of the whip to the 
leaders (no great matter if it grazes the sheriff) at any time 
guarantees your safety." In fact, a bedroom in a quiet house 
seems a safe enough retreat, yet it is' liable to its own notorious 
nuisances — to robbers by night, to rats, to fire. But the mail 
laughs at these terrors. To robbers, the answer is packed up 
and ready for delivery in the barrel of the guard's blunderbuss. 
Rats again ! — there are none about mail-coaches any more 
than snakes in Von Troll's Iceland ; except, indeed, now and 
then a parliamentary rat, who always hides his shame in what 
I have shown to be the '* coal-cellar." And as to fire, I never 
knew but one in a mail-coach, which was in the Exeter mail, 
and caused by an obstinate sailor bound to Devonport. Jack, 
making light of the law and the lawgiver that had set their 
faces against his offence, insisted on taking up a forbidden seat 
in the rear of the roof, from which he could exchange his own 
yarns with those of the guard. No greater offence was then 
known to mail-coaches; it was treason, it was Icesa majestas, 
it was by tendency arson ; and the ashes of Jack's pipe, falling 
amongst the straw of the hinder boot containing the mail-bags, 
raised a flame which (aided by the wind of our motion) threat- 
ened a revolution in the republic of letters. Yet even this left 
the sanctity of the box unviolated. In dignified repose, the 
coachman and myself sat on, resting with benign composure 
upon our knowledge that the fire would have to burn its way 
through four inside passengers before it could reach ourselves. 
I remarked to the coachman, with a quotation from Virgil's 
^ueid really too hackneyed : — 

"Jam proximus ardet 
Ucalegon." 

But, recollecting that the Virgilian part of the coachman's edu- 
cation might have been neglected, I interpreted so far as to say, 
that perhaps at that moment the flames were catching hold of 



34 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

our worthy brother and inside passenger, Ucalegon, The coach- 
man made no answer, which is my own way when a stranger 
addresses me either in Syriac or in Coptic, but by his faint scei> 
tical smile he seemed to insinuate that he knew better ; for that 
Ucalegon, as it happened, was not in the way-bill and therefore 
could not have been booked. 

No dignity is perfect which does not at some point ally it- 
self with the mysterious. The connection of the mail with the 
state and the executive government — a connection obvious, but 
yet not strictly defined — gave to the whole mail establishment 
an ofticial grandeur which did us service on the roads, and in- 
vested us with seasonable terrors. Not the less impressive 
were those terrors, because their legal limits were imperfectly 
ascertained. Look at those turnpike gates ; with what deferen- 
tial hurry, with what an obedient start, they fly open at our 
approach ! Look at that long line of carts and carters ahead, 
audaciously usurping the very crest of the road. Ah ! traitors, 
they do not hear us as yet ; but, as soon as the dreadful blast 
of our horn reaches them with proclamation of our approach, 
see with what frenzy of trepidatien they fly to their horses' 
heads, and deprecate our wrath by the precipitation of their 
crane-neck quarterings. Treason they feel to be their crime ; 
each individual carter feels himself under the ban of confiscation 
and attainder ; his blood is attainted through six generations ; 
and nothing is wanting but the headsman and his axe, the block 
and the saw-dust, to close up the vista of his horrors. What ! 
shall it be within benefit of clergy to delay the king's message 
on the high road ? — to interrupt the great respirations, ebb and 
flood, systole and diastole, of the national intercourse ? — to 
endanger the safety of tidings, running day and night between 
all nations and languages ? Or can it be fancied, amongst the 
weakest of men, that the bodies of the criminals will be given up 
to their widows for Christian burial ? Now the doubts which 
were raised as to our powers did more to wrap them in terror, 
by wrapping them in uncertainty, than could have been effected 
by the sharpest definitions of the law from the Quarter Ses- 
sions. We, on our parts (we, the collective mail, I mean), did 
our utmost to exalt the idea of our privileges by the insolence 
with which we wielded them. Whether this insolence rested 
upon law that gave it a sanction, or upon conscious power that 
haughtily dispensed with that sanction, equally it spoke from a 



THE GLORY OF MOTION o5 

potential station ; and the agent, in each particular insolence of 
the moment, was viewed reverentially, as one having authority. 

Sometimes after breakfast His Majesty's mail would become 
frisky ; and in its difficult wheelings amongst the intricacies of 
early markets, it would upset an apple-cart, a cart loaded with 
eggs, &c. Huge was the affliction and dismay, awful was the 
smash. I, as far as possible, endeavored in such a case to re- 
present the conscience and moral sensibilities of the mail ; and, 
when wildernesses of eggs were lying poached under our horses' 
hoofs, then would I stretch forth my hands in sorrow, saying 
(in words too celebrated at that time, from the false echoes of 
Marengo), "Ah! wherefore have we not time to weep over 
you ? " which was evidently impossible, since, in fact, we had 
no time to laugh over them. Tied to post-office allowance, in 
some cases of fifty minutes for eleven miles, could the Royal 
Mail pretend to undertake the offices of sympathy and condo- 
lence ? Could it be expected to provide tears for the accidents 
of the road ? If even it seemed to trample on humanity, it did / j 
so, I felt, in discharge of its own more peremptory duties. '^ ' 

Upholding the morality of the mail, a fortiori I upheld its 
rights ; as a matter of duty, I stretched to the uttermost its 
privilege of imperial precedency, and astonished weak minds 
by the feudal powers which I hinted to be lurking construc- 
tively in the charters of this proud establishment. Once I 
remember being on the box of the Holyhead mail, between 
Shrewsbury and Oswestry, when a tawdry thing from Birming- 
ham, some " Tallyho " or " Highflyer,'' all flaunting with green 
and gold, came up alongside of us. What a contrast to our 
royal simplicity of form and color in this plebeian wretch ! The 
single ornament on our dark ground of chocolate color was the 
mighty shield of the imperial arms, but emblazoned in propor- 
tions as modest as a signet-ring bears to a seal of office. Even 
this was displayed only on a single panel, whispering, rather 
than proclaiming, our relations to the mighty state ; whilst the 
beast from Birmingham, our green-and-gold friend from false, 
fleeting, perjured Brummagem, had as much writing and paint- 
ing on its sprawling flanks as would have puzzled a decipherer 
from the tombs of Luxor. For some time this Birmingham ma- 
chine ran along by our side — a piece of familiarity that already 
of itself seemed to me sufficiently Jacobinical. But all at once a 
movement of the horses announced a desperate intention of leav- 



36 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

ing us behind. *' Do you see tliat ?" I said to the coachman. 
— " I see," was his shoi't answer. He was wide awake, yet he 
waited longer than seemed prudent ; for the horses of our auda- 
cious opponent had a disagreeable air of freshness and power. 
But his motive was loyal ; his wish was, that the Birmingham 
conceit should be full-blown before he froze it. When that 
seemed right, he unloosed, or, to speak by a stronger word, he 
sprang, his known resources : he slipped our royal horses like 
cheetahs, or hunting-leopards, after the affrighted game. How 
they could retain such a reserve of fiery power after the work 
they had accomplished, seemed hard to explain. But on our 
side, besides the physical superiority, was a tower of moral 
strength, namely, the King's name, " which they upon the ad- 
verse faction wanted." Passing them without an eflbrt, as it 
seemed, we threw them into the rear with so lengthening an in- 
terval between us, as proved in itself the bitterest mockery of 
their presumption ; whilst our guard blew back a shattering 
blast of triumph, that was really too painfully full of derision. 
I mention this little incident for its connection with what 
followed. A Welsh rustic, sitting behind me, asked if I had 
not felt my heart burn within me during the progress of the 
race ? I said, with philosophic calmness. No; because we were 
not racing with a mail, so that no glory could be gained. In 
fact, it was sufficiently mortifying that such a Birmingham thing 
should dare to challenge us. The Welshman replied that he 
didn't see that; for that a cat might look at a king, and a 
J^rummagem coach might lawfully race the Holyhead mail. 
" Race us, if you like," I replied, " though even that has an 
air of sedition, but not heat us. This would have been treason ; 
and for its own sake I am glad that the ' Tallyho ' was disap- 
pointed. " So dissatisfied did the Welshman seem with this 
opinion, that at last I was obliged to tell him a very fine story 
from one of our elder dramatists; viz., that once, in some far 
oriental kingdom, when the Sultan of all the land, with his 
princes, ladies, and chief omrahs, were flying their falcons, a 
hawk suddenly flew at a majestic eagle ; and in defiance of the 
eagle's natural advantages, in contempt also of the eagle's tra- 
ditional royalty, and before the whole assembled field of aston- 
ished spectators from Agra and Lahore, killed the eagle on the 
spot. Amazement seized the Sultan at the unequal contest, and 
burning admiration for its unparallnled result. He commanded 



THE GLORY OF MOTION o7 

that the hawk should be brought before him ; he caressed the bird 
with enthusiasm ; and he ordered that, for the commemoration 
of his matchless courage, a diadem of gold and rubies should be 
solemnly placed on the hawk's head ; but then that, immediately 
after this solemn coronation, the bird should be led off to execu- 
tion, as the most valiant indeed of traitors, but not the less a 
traitor, as having dared to rise rebelliously against his liege lord 
and anointed sovereign, the eagle. " Now," said I to the Welsh- 
man, " to you and me, as men of refined sensibilities, how pain- 
ful it would have been that this poor Brummagem brute, the 
' Tallyho,' in the impossible case of a victory over us, should 
have been crowned with Birmingham tinsel, with paste diamonds, 
and Roman pearls, and then led off to instant execution." The 
Welshman doubted if that could be warranted by law. And 
when I hinted at the 6th of Edward Longshanks, chap. 18, 
for regulating the precedency of coaches, as being probably the 
statute relied on for the capital punishment of such offences, 
he replied dryly, that if the attempt to pass a mail really were 
treasonable, it was a pity that the " Tallyho " appeared to have 
so imperfect an acquaintance with law. 

The modern modes of travelling cannot compare with the old 
mail-coach system in grandeur and power. They boast of more 
velocity, not, however, as a consciousness, but as a fact of our 
lifeless knowledge, resting upon alien evidence ; as, for instance, 
because somebody says that we have gone fifty miles in the 
hour, though we are far from feeling it as a personal experience, 
or upon the evidence of a result, as that actually we find our- 
selves in York four hours after leaving London. Apart from 
such an assertion, or such a result, I, myself, am little aware of 
the pace. But, seated on the old mail-coach, we needed no evi- 
dence out of ourselves to indicate the velocity. On this system 
the word was, Non magna loquimur, as upon railways, sed 
vivimus. Yes, " magna vivimus ; " we do not make verbal 
ostentation of our grandeurs, we realize our grandeurs in act, 
and in the very experience of life. The vital experience of the 
glad animal sensibilities made doubts impossible on the question 
of our speed ; we heard our speed, we saw it, we felt it as a 
thrilling ; and this speed was not the product of blind, insensate 
agencies, that had no sympathy to give, but was incarnated in 
the fiery eyeballs of the noblest amongst brutes, in his dilated 
nostril, spasmodic muscles, and thunder-beating hoofs. The 



o8 THE kn(;lish .mail-coach 

sensibility of the horse, uttering itself in the maniac light of 
his eye, might be the last vibration of such a movement ; the 
glory of Salamanca might be the first. But the intervening 
links that connected them, that spread the earthquake of battle 
into the eyeball of the horse, were the heart of man and its 
electric thrillings — kindling in the rapture of the hery strife, 
and then propagating its own tumults by contagious shouts and 
gestures to the heart of his servant the horse. 

But now, on the new system of travelling, iron tubes and 
boilers have disconnected man's heart from the ministers of his 
locomotion. Nile nor Trafalgar has power to raise an extra 
bubble in a steam-kettle. The galvanic cycle is broken up for- 
ever ; man's imperial nature no longer sends itself forward 
through the electric sensibility of the horse ; the inter-agencies 
are gone in the mode of communication between the horse and 
his master, out of which grew so many aspects of sublimity 
under accidents of mists that hid, or sudden blazes that 
revealed, of mobs that agitated, or midnight solitudes that 
awed. Tidings, fitted to convulse all nations, must hencefor- 
Avards travel by culinary process; and the trumpet that once 
announced from afar the laurelled mail, heart-shaking M-hen 
heard screaming on tlie wind, and proclaiming itself through 
the darkness to every village or solitary house on its route, has 
now given way forever to the pot-wallopings of the boiler. 

Thus have perished multiform openings for public expres- 
sions of interest, scenical yet natural, in great national tidings ; 
for revelations of faces and groups that could not offer them- 
selves amongst the fluctuating mobs of a railway station. The 
gatherings of gazers about a laurelled mail had one centre, and 
acknowledged one sole interest. But the crowds attending at a 
railway station have as little unity as running water, and own 
as many centres as there are separate carriages in the train. 

How else, for example, than as a constant watcher for the 
dawn, and for the London mail that in summer months entered 
about daybreak amongst the lawny thickets of Marlboroiigh 
forest, couldvst thou, sweet Fanny of the Bath Road, have 
become the glorified inmate of my dreams ? Yet Fanny, as the 
loveliest young woman for face and person that perhaps in ray 
whole life I have beheld, merited the station which even now, 
from a distance of forty years, she holds in my dreams ; yes, 
though by links of natural association she brings along with 



THE GLORY OF MOTION 39 

her a troop of dreadful creatures, fabulous and not fabulous, 
that are more abominable to the heart than Fanny and the 
dawn are delightful. 

Miss Fanny of the Bath Road, strictly speaking, lived at a 
mile's distance from the road ; but came so continually to meet 
the mail that I on my frequent transits rarely missed her, and 
naturally connected her image with the great thoroughfare 
where only I had ever seen her. Why she came so punctually, 
I do not exactly know ; but I believe with some burden of 
commissions to be executed in Bath, which had gathered at her 
own residence as a central rendezvous for converging them. 
The mail-coachman who drove the Bath Mail, and wore the 
Ro3^al livery, happened to be Fanny's grandfather. A good man 
he was, that loved his beautiful granddaughter ; and, loving 
her wisely, was vigilant over her deportment in any case where 
young Oxford might happen to be concerned. Did my vanity 
then suggest that I myself, individually, could fall within the 
line of his terrors ? Certainly not, as regarded any physical 
pretensions that I could plead ; for Fanny (as a chance passen- 
ger from her own neighborhood once told me) counted in her 
train a hundred and ninety-nine professed admirers, if not open 
aspirants to her favor ; and probably not one of the whole bri- 
gade but excelled myself in personal advantages. Ulysses even, 
with the unfair advantage of his accursed bow, could hardly 
have undertaken that amount of suitoi's. So the danger might 
have seemed slight — only that woman is universally aristo- 
cratic ; it is amongst her nobilities of heart that she it; so. 
Now, the aristocratic distinctions in my favor might easily 
Avith Miss Fanny have compensated my physical deficiencies. 
Did I then make love to Fanny ? Why, yes ; about as much 
love as one could make whilst the mail was changing horses — 
a process which, ten years later, did not occupy above eighty 
seconds; but tkeii — viz., about Waterloo — it occupied five 
times eighty. Now, four hundred seconds offer a field quite 
ample enough for whispering into a young woman's ear a great 
deal of truth, and (by way of parenthesis) some trifle of false- 
hood. Grandpapa did right, therefore, to watch me. And yet, 
as happens too often to the grandpapas of earth in a contest 
with the admirers of granddaughters, how vainly Avould he 
have watched me had I meditated any evil whispers to Fanny ! 
She, it is my belief, would have protected herself against any 



40 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

man's evil suggestions. But he, as the result showed, could 
not have intercepted the opportunities for such suggestions. 
Yet, why not ? Was he not active ? Was he not blooming ? 
Blooming he was as Fanny herself. 

" Say, all our praises why should lords — " 
Stop, that 's not the line. 

" Say, all our roses why should girls engross ?" 

The coachman showed rosy blossoms on his face deeper than 
even his granddaughter's — his being drawn from the ale cask, 
Fanny's from the fountains of the dawn. But, in spite of his 
blooming face, some infirmities he had; and one particularly in 
which he too much resembled a crocodile. This lay in a mon- 
strous inaptitude for turning round. The crocodile, I presume, 
owes that inaptitude to the absurd length of his back ; but in 
our grandpapa it arose rather from the absurd breadth of his 
back, combined, possibly, with some growing stiffness in his legs. 
Now, upon this crocodile infirmity of his I planted a human 
advantage for tendering my homage to Miss Fanny. In defiance 
of all his honorable vigilance, no sooner had he presented to us 
his mighty Jovian back (what a field for displaying to mankind 
his royal scarlet !), whilst inspecting professionally the buckles, 
the straps, and the silvery turrets of his harness, than I raised 
Miss Fanny's hand to my lips, and, by the mixed tenderness 
and respectfulness of my manner, caused her easily to under- 
stand how happy it would make me to rank upon her list as No. 
10 or 12, in which case a few casualties amongst her lovers 
(and observe, they hanged liberally in those days) might have 
promoted me speedily to the top of the tree ; as, on the other 
hand, with how much loyalty of submission I acquiesced by an- 
ticipation in her award, supposing that she should plant me in 
the very rearward of her favor, as No. 199 + 1. Most truly I 
loved this beautiful and ingenuous girl ; and had it not been 
for the Bath Mail, timing all courtships by post-office allowance, 
heaven only knows what might have come of it. People talk of 
being over head and ears in love ; now, the mail was the cause 
that I sank only over ears in love, which, you know, still left a 
trifie of brain to overlook the whole conduct of the affair. 

Ah, reader ! when I look back upon those days, it seems 
to me that all things change — all things perish. "Perish the 
roses and the palms of kings ; " perish even the crowns and 



THE GLORY OF MOTION 41 

trophies of Waterloo ; thunder and lightning are not the thun- 
der and lightning which I rememher. Koses are degenerating. 
The Fannies of our Island — though this I say with reluctance 
— are not visibly improving ; and the Bath Road is notoriously 
superannuated. Crocodiles, you will say, are stationary. Mr. 
Waterton tells me that the crocodile does not change ; that a 
cayman, in fact, or an alligator, is just as good for riding upon 
as he was in the time of the Pharaohs. That may be ; but the 
reason is, that the crocodile does not live fast — he is a slow 
coach. I believe it is generally understood among naturalists 
that the crocodile is a blockhead. It is my own impression that 
the Pharaohs were also blockheads. -Now, as the Pharaohs and 
the crocodile domineered over Egyptian society, this accounts 
for a singular mistake that prevailed through innumerable gen- 
erations on the Nile. The crocodile made the ridiculous blunder 
of supposing man to be meant chiefly for his own eating. Man, 
taking a different view of the subject, naturally met that mis- 
take by another : he viewed the crocodile as a thing sometimes to 
worship, but always to run away from. And this continued 
until Mr. Waterton changed the relations between the animals. 
The mode of escaping from the reptile he showed to be, not by 
running away, but by leaping on its back, booted and spurred. 
The two animals had misunderstood each other. The use of 
the crocodile has now been cleared up, — viz., to be ridden; 
and the final cause of man is that he may improve the health 
of the crocodile by riding him a-fox-hunting before breakfast. 
And it is pretty certain that any crocodile who has been regu- 
larly hunted through the season, and is master of the weight he 
carries, will take a six-barred gate now as well as ever he would 
have done in the infancy of the pyramids. 

If, therefore, the crocodile does not change, all things else 
undeniably do : even the shadow of the pyramids grows less. 
And often the restoration in vision of Fanny and the Bath 
Road makes me too pathetically sensible of that truth. Out 
of the darkness, if I happen to call back the image of Fanny, 
up' rises suddenly from a gulf of forty years a rose in June ; 
or, if I think for an instant of the rose in Jiine, up rises 
the heavenly face of Fanny. One after the other, like the 
antiphonies in the choral service, rise Fanny and the rose in 
June, then back again the rose in June and Fanny. Then 
come both together, as in a chorus — roses and Fannies, Fannies 



42 THK ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

and roses, without end, thick as blossoms in paradise. Then 
comes a venerable crocodile in a royal livery of scarlet and 
gold with sixteen capes ; and the crocodile is driving four-in- 
hand from the box of the Bath Mail. And suddenly, we upon 
the mail are pulled up by a mighty dial, sculptured with the 
hours, that mingle with the heavens and the heavenly host. 
Then all at once we are arrived at Marlborough forest, amongst 
the lovely households of the roe-deer ; the deer and their fawns 
retire into the dewy thickets ; the thickets are rich with roses ; 
once again the roses call up the sweet countenance of Fanny ; 
and she, being the granddaughter of a crocodile, awakens a 
dreadful host of semi-legendary animals — griffins, dragons, 
basilisks, sphinxes — till at length the whole vision of fighting 
images crowds into one towering armorial shield, a vast embla- 
zonry of human charities and human loveliness that have per- 
ished, but quartered heraldically with unutterable and demoniac 
natures ; whilst over all rises, as a surmounting crest, one fair 
female hand, with the forefinger pointing, in sweet, sorrowful 
admonition, upwards to heaven, where is sculptured the eternal 
writing which proclaims the frailty of earth and her children. 

GOIXG DOWN WITH VICTORY 

But the grandest chapter of our experience, within the whole 
mail-coach service, was on those occasions when we went down 
from London with the news of victory. A period of about ten 
years stretched from Trafalgar to Waterloo : the second and 
third years of which period (1806 and 1807) were compara- 
tively sterile ; but the other nine (from 1805 to 1815 inclu- 
sively) furnished a long succession of victories ; the least of 
which, in such a contest of Titans, had an inappreciable value 
of position — partly for its absolute interference with the plans 
of our enemy, but still more from its keeping alive through cen- 
tral Europe the sense of a deep-seated vulnerability in France. 
Even to tease the coasts of our enemy, to mortify them by 
continual blockades, to insult them by capturing if it were but 
a baubling schooner under the eyes of their arrogant armies, re- 
peated from time to time a sullen proclamation of power lodged 
in one quarter to which the hopes of Christendom turned in 
secret. How much more loudly must this proclamation have 
spoken in the audacity of having bearded the elite of their 
troops, and having beaten them in pitched battles ! Five years 



GOING DOWN WITH VICTORY 43 

of life it was worth paying down for the privilege of an outside 
place on a mail-coach, when carrying down the first tidings of any 
such event. And it is to be noted that, from our insular situa- 
tion, and the multitude of our frigates disposable for the rapid, 
transmission of intelligence, rarely did any unauthorized rumor 
steal away a prelibation from the first aroma of the regular de- 
spatches. The government news was generally the earliest news. 
From eight p. m. to fifteen or twenty minutes later, imagine 
the mails assembled on parade in Lombard Street, where, at 
that time, and not in St. Martin's-le-Grand, was seated the 
General Post-office. In what exact strength we mustered I do 
not remember ; but, from the length of each separate attelage, 
we filled the street, though a long one, and though we were 
drawn up in double file. On any night the spectacle was 
beautiful. The absolute perfection of all the appointments 
about the carriages and the harness, their strength, their brilliant 
cleanliness, their beautiful simplicity — but, more than all, the 
royal magnificence of the horses — were what might first have 
fixed the attention. Every carriage, on every morning in the 
year, was taken down to an official inspector for examination 
— wheels, axles, linchpins, poles, glasses, lamps, were all criti- 
cally probed and tested. Every part of every carriage had been 
cleaned, every horse had been groomed, with as much rigor as 
if they belonged to a private gentleman ; and that part of the 
spectacle ofi"ered itself always. But the night before us is a 
night of victory ; and, behold ! to the ordinary display, what a 
heart-shaking addition ! — horses, men, carriages, all are dressed 
in laurels and flowers, oak-leaves and ribbons. The guards, as 
being officially His Majest5'-'s servants, and of the coachmen 
such as are within the privilege of the post-office, wear the 
royal liveries, of course ; and as it is summer (for all the land 
victories were naturally won in summer), they wear on this fine 
evening these liveries exposed to view without any covering of 
upper coats. * Such a costume, and the elaborate arrangement 
of the laurels in their hats, dilate their hearts by giving to 
them openly a personal connection with the great news in 
which already they have the general interest of patriotism. 
That great national sentiment surmounts and quells all sense 
of ordinary distinctions. Those passengers who happen to be 
gentlemen are now hardly to be distinguished as such, except 
by dress ; for the usual reserve of their manner in speaking to 



44 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

the attendants has on this night melted away. One heart, one 
pride, one glory, connects every man by the transcendent bond 
of his national blood. The spectators, who are numerous be- 
yond precedent, express their sympathy with these fervent feel- 
ings by continual hurrahs. Every moment are shouted aloud 
by the post-office servants, and summoned to draw up, the great 
ancestral names of cities known to history through a thousand 
years — Lincoln, Winchester, Portsmouth, Gloucester, Oxford, 
Bristol, Manchester, York, Newcastle, Edinburgh, Glasgow, 
Perth, Stirling, Aberdeen — expressing the grandeur of the em- 
pire by the antiquity of its towns, and the grandeur of the 
mail establishment by the diffusive radiation of its separate 
missions. Every moment you hear thunder of lids locked down 
upon the mail-bags. That sound to each individual mail is the 
signal for drawing off, which process is the finest part of the 
entire spectacle. Then come the horses into play. Horses ! 
Can these be horses that bound off with the action and gestures 
of leopards ? What stir ! — what sea-like ferment ! — what a 
thundering of wheels ! — what a trampling of hoofs ! — what a 
sounding of trumpets! — what farewell cheers — what redoub- 
ling peals of brotherly congratulation, connecting the name of 
the particular mail — " Liverpool forever ! " — with the name 
of the particular victory, — " Badajoz forever ! " or " Salamanca 
forever ! " The half-slumbering consciousness that all night 
long and all the next day — perhaps for even a longer period 
— many of these mails, like fire racing along a train of gun- 
powder, will be kindling at every instant new successions of 
iDurning joy has an obscure effect of multiplying the victory 
itself, by multiplying to the imagination into infinity the stages 
of its progressive diffusion. A fiery arrow seems to be let loose, 
which from that moment is destined to travel, without inter- 
mission, westwards for three hundred miles, northwards for 
six hundred ; and the sympathy of our Lombard Street friends 
at parting is exalted a hundredfold by a sort of visionary sym- 
pathy with the yet slumbering sympathies which in so vast a 
succession we are going to awake. 

Liberated from the embarrassments of the city, and issuing 
into the broad, uncrowded avenues of the northern suburbs, we 
soon begin to enter upon our natural pace of ten miles an hour. 
In the broad light of the summer evening, the sun, perhaps, 
only just at the point of setting, we are seen from every story 



GOING DOWN WITH VICTORY 45 

of every house. Heads of every age crowd to the windows — 
young and old understand the language of our victorious sym- 
bols — and rolling volleys of sympathizing cheers run along us, 
behind us, and before us. The beggar, rearing himself against the 
wall, forgets his lameness, real or assumed, — thinks not of his 
whining trade, but stands erect, with bold exulting smiles, as we 
pass him. The victory has healed him, and says. Be thou whole ! 
Women and children, from garrets alike and cellars, through in- 
finite London, look down or look up with loving eyes upon our 
gay ribbons and our martial laurels ; sometimes kiss their hands ; 
sometimes hang out, as signals of affection, pocket-handkerchiefs, 
aprons, dusters, anything that, by catching the cummer breezes, 
will express an aerial jubilation. On the London side of Barnet, 
to which we draw near within a few minutes after nine, observe 
that private carriage which is approaching us. The weather be- 
ing so warm, the glasses are all down ; and one may read, as on 
the stage of a theatre, everything that goes on within. It contains 
three ladies — one likely to be "mamma," and two of seven- 
teen or eighteen, who are probably her daughters. What lovely 
animation, what beautiful unpremeditated pantomime, explain- 
ing to us every syllable that passes, in these ingenuous girls ! By 
the sudden start and raising of the hands, on first discovering 
our laurelled equipage ! — by the sudden movement and appeal 
to the elder lady from both of them — and by the heightened 
color on their animated countenances, we can almost hear them 
saying, " See, see ! Look at their laurels ! Oh, mamma ! there 
has been a great battle in Spain ; and it has been a great vic- 
tory." In a moment we are on the point of passing them. We 
passengers — I on the box, and the two on the roof behind me 
— raise our hats to the ladies ; the coachman makes his profes- 
sional salute with the whip ; the guard even, though punctilious 
on the matter of his dignity as an officer under the Crown, 
touches his hat. The ladies move to us, in return, with a win- 
ning graciousness of gesture ; all smile on each side in a way 
that nobody could misunderstand, and that nothing short of a 
grand national sympathy could so instantaneously prompt. Will 
these ladies say that we are nothing to them? Oh, no; they 
will not say that. They cannot deny — they do not deny — 
that for this night they are our sisters ; gentle or simple, scholar 
or illiterate servant, for twelve hours to come, we on the outside 
have the honor to be their brothers. Those poor women, again, 



40 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

who stop to gaze upon us with delight at the entrance of Barnet, 
and seem, by their air of weariness, to be returning from labor 
— do you mean to say that they are washerwomen and charwo- 
men ? Oh, my poor friend, you are quite mistaken. I assure 
you they stand in a far higher rank ; for this one night they 
feel themselves by birthright to be daughters of England, and 
answer to no humbler title. 

Every joy, however, even rapturous joy — such is the sad 
law of earth — may carry witli it grief, or fear of grief, to some. 
Three miles beyond Barnet, we see approaching us another pri- 
vate carriage, nearly repeating the circumstances of the former 
case. Here, also, the glasses are all down — here, also, is an 
elderly lady seated ; but the two daughters are missing; for the 
single young person sitting by the lady's side, seems to be an 
attendant — so I judge from her dress, and her air of respectful 
reserve. The lady is in mourning ; and her coimtenance ex- 
presses sorrow. At first she does not look up ; so that I believe 
she is not aware of our approach, until she hears the measured 
beating of our horses' hoofs. Then she raises her eyes to settle 
them painfully on our triumphal equipage. Our decorations ex- 
plain the case to her at once ; but she beholds them with appa- 
rent anxiety, or even with terror. Some time before this, I, 
finding it difficult to hit a flying mark, when embarrassed by the 
coachman's person and reins intervening, had given to the guard 
a " Courier " evening paper, containing the gazette, for the next 
carriage that might pass. Accordingly he tossed it in, so folded 
that the huge capitals expressing some such legend as glori- 
ous VICTORY might catch the eye at once. To see the paper, 
however, at all, interpreted as it was by our ensigns of triumph, 
explained everything ; and, if the guard were right in thinking 
the lady to have received it with a gesture of horror, it could not 
be doubtful that she had suffered some deep personal affliction 
in connection with this Spanish war. 

Here, now, was the case of one who, having formerly suf- 
fered, might, erroneously perhaps, be distressing herself with 
anticipations of another similar suffering. That same night, and 
hardly three hours later, occurred the reverse case. A poor 
woman, who too probably would find herself in a day or two 
to have suffered the heaviest afflictions by the battle, blindly 
allowed herself to express an exultation so unmeasured in the 
news and its details as gave to her the appearance which 



• ;oixl; down with victoky 47 

amongst Celtic Highlanders is called fey. This was at some lit- 
tle town where we changed horses an hour or two after mid- 
night. Some fair or wake had kept the people up Qut of their 
beds, and had occasioned a partial illumination of the stalls and 
booths, presenting an unusual but very impressive effect. We 
saw many lights moving about as we drew near ; and perhaps 
the most striking scene on the whole route was our reception at 
this place. The flashing of torches and the beautiful radiance of 
blue lights (technically, Bengal lights) upon the heads of our 
horses ; the fine efi'ect of such a showery and ghostly illumina- 
tion falling upon our flowers and glittering laurels ; whilst all 
around ourselves, that formed a centre of light, the darkness 
gathered on the rear and flanks in massy blackness ; these opti- 
cal splendors, together with the prodigious enthusiasm of the 
people, composed a picture at once scenical and affecting, the- 
atrical and holy. As we stayed for three or four minutes, I 
alighted ; and immediately from a dismantled stall in the street, 
where no doubt she had been presiding through the earlier part 
of the night, advanced eagerly a middle-aged woman. The 
sight of my newspaper it was that had drawn her attention upon 
myself. The victory which we were carrying down to the 
provinces on this occasion was the imperfect one of Talavera — 
imperfect for its results, such was the virtual treachery of the 
Spanish General, Cuesta, but not imperfect in its ever-memora- 
ble heroism. I told her the main outline of the battle. The 
agitation of her enthusiasm had been so conspicuous when lis- 
tening, and when first applying for information, that I could not 
but ask her if she had not some relative in the Peninsular 
army. Oh, yes ; her only son was there. In what regiment ? He 
was a trooper in the 23d Dragoons. My heart sank within me 
as she made that answer. This sublime regiment, which an 
Englishman should never mention without raising his hat to 
their memory, had made tlie most memorable and effective 
charge recorded in military annals. They leaped their horses — 
over a trench where they could ; into it, and with the result of 
death or mutilation when they could 7iot. What proportion 
cleared the trench is nowhere stated. Those who did closed up 
and went down upon the enemy with such divinity of fervor (I 
use the word divinity by design : the inspiration of God must 
have prompted this movement to those whom even then he was 
calling to His presence), that two results followed. As regarded 



48 



THE en(;lish mail-coach 



he enemy, this 23d Dragoons, not, I believe, originally three 
imndred and fifty strong, paralyzed a French column, six thou- 
sand strong, then ascended the hill, and fixed the gaze of the 
whole French army. As regarded themselves, the 23d were 
supposed at first to have been barely not annihilated ; but even- 
tually, I believe, about one in four survived. And this then 
was the regiment — a regiment already for some hours glorified 
and hallowed to the ear of all London, as lying stretched, by a 
large majority, upon one bloody aceldama — in which the youn- 
trooper served whose mother was now talking in a spirit of such 
joyous enthusiasm. Did I tell her the truth ? Had I the heart 
to break up her dreams ? No. To-morrow, said I to myself — to- 
morrow, or the next day, will publish the worst. For one niaht 
more, wherefore should she not sleep in peace ? After to-morrow 
the chances are too many that peace will forsake her pillow This 
brief respite, then, let her owe to my gift and my forbearance, 
iiut, if I told her not of the bloody price that had been paid 
not, therefore, was I silent on the contributions from her son's 
regiment to that day's service and glory. I showed her not the 
tuneral banners under which the noble regiment was sleepin- I 
lifted not the overshadowing laurels from the bloody trench in 
which horse and rider lay mangled together. But I told her 
how these dear children of England, officers and privates, had 
leaped their horses over all obstacles as gayly as hunters to the 
morning s chase. I told her how they rode their horses into 
the mists of death (saying to myself, but not saying to her) 
and laid down their young lives for thee, mother England as 
willingly — poured out their noble blood as cheerfully — as e'ver 
after a long day's sport, when infants, they had rested their wea- 
ned heads upon their mother's knees, or had sunk to sleep in 
her arms. Strange it is, yet true, that she seemed to have no 
fears for her son's safety, even after this knowledge that the 
23d Dragoons had been memorably engaged ; but so much was 
she enraptured by the knowledge that hh regiment, and there- 
fore that he, had rendered conspicuous service in the dreadful 
conflict — a service which had actually made them, within the 
last twelve hours, the foremost topic of conversation in Lon- 
don — so absolutely was fear swallowed up in joy, that, in the 
mere simplicity of her fervent nature, the poor woman threw 
her arms round my neck, as she thought of her son, and gave 
to me the kiss which secretly was meant for him. 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 49 



SECTION THE SECOND— THE VISION OF SUDDEN 

DEATH 

What is to be taken as the predominant opinion of man, 
reflective and philosophic, upon sudden death ? It is re- 
markable that, in different conditions of society, sudden death 
has been variously regarded as the consummation of an earthly 
career most fervently to be desired, or, again, as that consum- 
mation which is with most horror to.be deprecated. Caesar, the 
Dictator, at his last dinner party (ccena), on the very evening 
before his assassination, when the minutes of his earthly career 
were numbered, being asked what death, in his judgment, 
might be pronounced the most eligible, replied, " That which 
should be most sudden." On the other hand, the divine Litany 
of our English Church, when breathing forth supplications as 
if in some representative character for the whole human race 
prostrate before God, places such a death in the very van of 
horrors : " From lightning and tempest ; from plague, pesti- 
lence, and famine ; from battle and murder, and from sudden 
death — Good Lord, deliver us." Sudden death is here 
made to crown the climax in a grand ascent of calamities ; it is 
ranked among the last of curses ; and yet, by the noblest of 
Romans, it was ranked as the first of blessings. In that dif- 
ference most readers will see little more than the essential 
difi'erenee between Christianity and Paganism. But this, on con- 
sideration, I doubt. The Christian Church may be right in its 
estimate of sudden death ; and it is a natural feeling, though 
after all it may also be an infirm one, to wish for a quiet dis- 
missal from life — as that which seems most reconcilable with 
meditation, with penitential retrospects, and with the humili- 
ties of farewell prayer. There does not, however, occur to me 
any direct scriptural warrant for this earnest petition of the 
English Litany, unless under a special construction of the word 
"sudden." It seems a petition indulged, rather, and conceded 
to human infirmity, than exacted from human piety. It is not 
so much a doctrine built upon the eternities of the Christian 
system, as a plausible opinion built upon special varieties of 
physical temperament. Let that, however, be as it may, two 



50 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

remarks suggest themselves as prudent restraints upon a doc- 
trine which else viaij wander, and has wandered, into an un- 
charitable superstition. The first is this ; that many people 
are likely to exaggerate the horror of a sudden death, from the 
disposition to lay a false stress upon words or acts, simply 
because by an accident they have become final words or acts. 
If a man dies, for instance, by some sudden death when he 
happens to be intoxicated, such a death is falsely regarded with 
peculiar horror ; as though the intoxication were suddenly 
exalted into a blasphemy. But that is iinphilosophic. The 
man was, or he was not, JiahituaUy a drunkard. If not, if his 
intoxication were a solitary accident, there can be no reason for 
allowing special emphasis to this act, simply because through 
misfortune it became his final act. Nor, on the other hand, if 
it were no accident, but one of his habitual transgressions, will 
it be the more habitual or the more a transgression, because 
some sudden calamity surprising him has caused this habitual 
transgression to be also a final one. Could the man have had 
any reason even dimly to foresee his own sudden death, there 
would have been a new feature in his act of intemperance, — 
feature of presumption and irreverence, as in one that, having 
known himself drawing near to the presence of God, should 
have suited his demeanor to an expectation so awful. But this 
is no part of the case supposed. And the only new element in 
the man's act is not any element of special immorality, but 
simply of special misfortune. 

The other remark has reference to the meaning of the word 
sudden. Very possibly Caesar and the Christian Church do not 
differ in the way supposed ; that is, do not diff'er by any differ- 
ence of doctrine as between Pagan and Christian views of the 
moral temper appropriate to death, but perhaps they are con- 
templating different cases. Both contemplate a violent death, a 
/3ia^avaT09 — death that is /8/atos, or, in other words, death 
that is brought about, not by internal and spontaneous change, 
but by active force, having its origin from without. In this 
meaning the two authorities agree. Thus far they are in har- 
mony. But the diff'erence is, that the Roman by the word 
" sudden " means ///^yinyermc/ ; whereas the Christian Litany 
by " sudden death " means a death without warning, conse- 
quently without any available summons to religious prepara- 
tion. The poor mutineer, who kneels down to gather into his 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 51 

heart the bullets from twelve firelocks of his pitying comrades, 
dies by a most sudden death in Caesar's sense, — one shock, one 
mighty spasm, one (possibly 7iot one) groan, and all is over. 
But in the sense of the Litany, the mutineer's death is far 
from sudden ; his offence originally, his imprisonment, his trial, 
the interval between his sentence and its execution, having all 
furnished him with separate warnings of his fate — having all 
summoned him to meet it with solemn preparation. 

Here at once, in this sharp verbal distinction, we comprehend 
the faithful earnestness with which a holy Christian Church 
pleads on behalf of her poor departing children, that God 
would vouchsafe to them the last great privilege and distinc- 
tion possible on a death-bed, viz., the opportunity of untroubled 
preparation for facing this mighty trial. Sudden death, as 
a mere variety in the modes of dying, where death in some 
shape is inevitable, proposes a question of choice which, 
equally in the Roman and the Christian sense, will be vari- 
ously answered, according to each man's variety of tempera- 
ment. Meantime, one aspect of sudden death there is, one 
modification, upon which no doubt can arise, that of all martyr- 
doms it is the most agitating ; viz., where it surprises a man 
under circumstances which offer (or which seem to offer) some 
hurrying, flying, inappreciably minute chance of evading it. 
Sudden as the danger which it affronts must be any effort by 
which such an evasion can be accomplished. Even that, even 
the sickening necessity for hurrying in extremity where all 
hurry seems destined to be vain, even that anguish is liable 
to a hideous exasperation in one particular case ; viz., where 
the appeal is made not exclusively to the instinct of self-pre^ 
servation, but to the conscience, on behalf of some other life 
besides your own, accidentally thrown upon yoiw protection. 
To fail, to collapse in a service merely your own, might seem 
comparatively venial ; though in fact, it is far from venial. 
But to fail in a case where Providence has suddenly thrown 
into your hands the final interests of another, a fellow-crea- 
tufe shuddering between the gates of life and death, — this, to 
a man of apprehensive conscience, would mingle the misery of 
an atrocious criminality with the misery of a bloody calamity. 
You are called upon, by the case supposed, possibly to die ; 
but to die at the very moment when, by any even partial fail- 
ure or effeminate collapse of your energies, you will be self- 



52 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

denounced as a murderer. You had but the twinkling of an 
eye for your effort, and that effort might have been unavail- 
ing ; but to have risen to the level of such an effort would 
have rescued you, though not from dying, yet from dying as a 
traitor to your final and farewell duty. 

The situation here contemplated exposes a dreadful ulcer, 
lurking far down in the depths of human nature. It is not that 
men generally are summoned to face such awful trials. But 
potentially, and in shadowy outline, such a trial is moving 
subterraneously in perhaps all men's natures. Upon the secret 
mirror of our dreams such a trial is darkly projected, perhaps, 
to every one of us. That dream, so familiar to childhood, of 
meeting a lion, and, through languishing prostration in hope and 
the energies of hope, that constant sequel of lying down before 
the lion, publishes the secret frailty of human nature, reveals 
its deep-seated falsehood to itself, records its abysmal treachery. 
Perhaps not one of us escapes that dream ; perhaps, as by some 
sorrowful doom of man, that dream repeats for every one of 
us, through every generation, the original temptation in Eden. 
Every one of us, in this dream, has a bait offered to the infirm 
places of his own individual will ; once again a snare is presented 
for tempting him into captivity to a luxury of ruin ; once again, 
as in aboriginal Paradise, the man falls by his own choice ; again, 
by infinite iteration, the ancient Earth groans to Heaven, 
through her secret caves, over the weakness of her child : " Na- 
ture, from her seat, sighing through all her works," again " gives 
signs of woe that all is lost ; " and again the counter sigh is re- 
peated to the sorrowing heavens for the endless rebellion against 
God. It is not without probability that in the world of dreams 
every one of us ratifies for himself the original transgression. 
In dreams, perhaps under some secret conflict of the midnight 
sleeper, lighted up to the consciousness at the time, but dark- 
ened to the memory as soon as all is finished, each several child 
of our mysterious race completes for himself the treason of the 
aboriginal fall. 

The incident, so memorable in itself by its features of horror, 
and so scenical by its grouping for the eye, which furnished the 
text for this reverie upon Sudden Death, occurred to myself 
in the dead of night, as a solitary spectator, when seated on 
the box of the Manchester and Glasgow mail in the second or 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 53 

third summer after Waterloo. I find it necessary to relate the 
circumstances, because they are such as could not have occurred 
unless under a singular combination of accidents. In those days, 
the oblique and lateral communications with many rural post-of- 
fices were so arranged, either through necessity or through defect 
of system, as to make it requisite for the main northwestern 
mail (i. e., the down mail), on reaching Manchester, to halt for 
a number of hours ; how many, I do not remember, — six or 
seven, I think ; but the result was, that, in the ordinary course, 
the mail recommenced its journey northwards about midnight. 
Wearied with the long detention at a gloomy hotel, I walked 
out about eleven o'clock at night for the sake of fresh air, mean- 
ing to fall in with the mail and resume my seat at the post- 
office. The night, however, being yet dark, as the moon had 
scarcely risen, and the streets being at that hour empty, so as to 
offer no opportunities for asking the road, I lost my way ; and 
did not reach the post-office until it was considerably past mid- 
night ; but, to my great relief (as it was important for me to be 
in Westmoreland by the morning), I saw in the huge saucer eyes 
of the mail, blazing through the gloom, an evidence that my 
chance was not yet lost. Past the time it was, but, by some rare 
accident, the mail was not even yet ready to start. I ascended 
to my seat on the box, where my cloak was still lying as it 
had lain at the Bridgewater Arms. I had left it there in imita- 
tion of a nautical discoverer, who leaves a bit of bunting on the 
shore of his discovery, by way of warning off the ground the 
whole human race and notifying to the Christian and the hea- 
then worlds, with his best compliments, that he has hoisted 
his pocket-handkerchief once and forever upon that virgin soil ; 
thenceforward claiming the jus doniinii to the top of the atmo- 
sphere above it, and also the right of driving shafts to the 
centre of the earth below it ; so that all people found after this 
warning, either aloft in upper chambers of the atmosphere, or 
groping in subterraneous shafts, or squatting audaciously on the 
surface of the soil, will be treated as trespassers, — kicked, that 
is to say, or decapitated, as circumstances may suggest, by their 
very faithful servant, the owner of the said pocket-handkerchief. 
In the present case, it is probable that my cloak might not have 
been respected, and the jus gentium might have been cruelly vio- 
lated in my person — for, in the dark, people commit deeds of 
darkness, gas being a great ally of morality — but it so happened 



54 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

that, on this night, there was no other outside passenger ; and 
thus the crime, which else was but too probable, missed fire for 
want of a criminal. 

Having mounted the box, I took a small quantity of lauda- 
num, having already travelled two hundred and fifty miles ; viz., 
from a point seventy miles beyond London. In the taking of 
laudanum there was nothing extraordinary. But by accident it 
drew upon me the special attention of my assessor on the box, 
the coachman. And in that also there was nothing extraordi- 
nary. But by accident, and with great delight, it drew my own 
attention to the fact that this coachman was a monster in point 
of bulk, and that he had but one eye. In fact, he had been 
foretold by Virgil as 

" Moiistrum horrendum, informe, ingens cui lumen ademptum." 

He answered to the conditions in every one of the items : 
1, a monster he was ; 2, dreadful ; 3, shapeless ; 4, huge ; 5, 
who had lost an eye. But why should that delight me ? Had 
he been one of the Calendars in the " Arabian Nights," and had 
paid down his eye as the price of his criminal curiosity, what 
right had / to exult in his misfortune ? I did not exult : I de- 
lighted in no man's punishment, though it were even merited. 
But these personal distinctions (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) identified in 
an instant an old friend of mine, whom I had known in the 
south for some years as the most masterly of mail-coachmen. 
He was the man in all Europe that could (if any could) have 
driven six-in-hand full gallop over Al Sirat — that dreadful 
bridge of Mahomet, with no side battlements, and of extra room 
not enough for a razor's edge — leading right across the bottom- 
less gulf. Under this eminent man, whom in Greek I cognomi- 
nated Cyclops dlphrelates (Cylops the charioteer), I, and others 
known to me, studied the diphrelatic art. Excuse, reader, a word 
too elegant to be pedantic. As a pupil, though I paid extra fees, 
it is to be lamented that I did not stand high in his esteem. 
It showed his dogged honesty (though, observe, not his discern- 
ment), that he could not see my merits. Let vis excuse his ab- 
surdity in this particular, by remembering his want of an eye. 
Doubtless that made him blind to my merits. In the art of 
conversation, however, he admitted that I had the whip-hand 
of him. On this present occasion, great joy was at our meeting. 
But what was Cyclops doing here ? Had the medical men re- 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 55 

commended northern air, or how ? I collected, from such ex- 
planations as he volunteered, that he had an interest at stake in 
some suit-at-law now pending at Lancaster ; so that probably 
he had got himself transferred to this station for the purpose of 
connecting with his professional pursuits an instant readiness 
for the calls of his lawsuit. 

Meantime, what are we stopping for ? Surely we have now 
waited long enough. Oh, this procrastinating mail, and this 
procrastinating post-office ! Can't they take a lesson upon that 
subject from me ? Some people have called me procrastinating. 
Yet you are witness, reader, that I was kept here waiting for 
the post-office. Will the post-office lay its hand on its heart, 
in its moments of sobriety, and assert that ever it waited for 
me ? What are they about ? The guard tells me that there 
is a large extra accumulation of foreign mails this night, owing 
to irregularities caused by war, by wind, by weather, in the 
packet service, which as yet does not benefit at all by steam. 
For an extra hour, it seems, the post-office has been engaged in 
threshing out the pure wheaten correspondence of Glasgow, and 
winnowing it from the chaft' of all baser intermediate towns. 
But at last all is finished. Sound your horn, guard. Man- 
chester, good-by ; we 've lost an hour by your criminal conduct 
at the post-office ; which, however, though I do not mean to 
part with a serviceable ground of complaint, and one which 
really is such for the horses, to me secretly is an advantage, 
since it compels us to look sharply for this lost hour amongst 
the next eight or nine, and to recover it (if we can ) at the rate 
of one mile extra per hour. Off we are at last, and at eleven 
miles per hour ; and for the moment I detect no changes in the 
energy or in the skill of Cyclops. 

From Manchester to Kendal, which virtually (though not 
in law) is the capital of Westmoreland, there were at this time 
seven stages of eleven miles each. The first five of these, 
counting from Manchester, terminate in Lancaster, which is 
therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and the same 
distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three stages termi- 
nate in Preston (called, by way of distinction from other towns 
of that name, proud Preston), at which place it is that the 
separate roads from Liverpool and from Manchester to the 
north become confluent. Within these first three stages lay the 
foundation, the progress, and termination of our night's adven- 



56 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

ture. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops was 
mortal : he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep — a 
thing which previously I had never suspected. If a man in- 
dulges in the vicious habit of sleeping, all the skill in auriga- 
tion of Apollo himself, with the horses of Aurora to execute 
his notions, avail him nothing. "Oh, Cyclops!" I exclaimed, 
"thou art mortal! My friend, thou snorest." Through the 
first eleven miles, however, this infirmity — which I grieve 
to say that he shared with the whole Pagan Pantheon — be- 
trayed itself only by brief snatches. On waking up, he made 
an apology for himself, which, instead of mending matters, laid 
open a gloomy vista of coming disasters. The summer assizes, 
he reminded me, were now going on at Lancaster : in conse- 
quence of which, for three nights and three days, he had not 
lain down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his 
own summons as a witness on the trial in which he was inter- 
ested ; or else, lest he should be missing at the critical moment, 
was drinking with the other witnesses under the pastoral sur- 
veillance of the attorneys. During the night, or that part of it 
which at sea would form the middle Avatch, he was driving. 
This explanation certainly accounted for his drowsiness, but in 
a way which made it much more alarming ; since now, after 
several days' resistance to this infirmity, at length he was stead- 
ily giving way. Throughout the second stage he grew more 
and more drowsy. In the second mile of the third stage, he 
surrendered himself finally and Avithout a struggle to his peril- 
ous temptation. All his past resistance had but deepened the 
weight of this final oppression. Seven atmospheres of sleep 
rested upon him ; and to consummate the case, our worthy 
guard, after singing " Love amongst the Roses " for perhaps 
thirty times without invitation and without applause, had in 
revenge moodily resigned himself to slumber — not so deep, 
doubtless, as the coachman's, but deep enough for mischief. 
And thus at last, about ten miles from Preston, it came about 
that I found myself left in charge of His Majesty's London and 
Glasgow mail, then running at the least twelve miles an hour. 
What made this negligence less criminal than else it must 
have been thought, was the condition of the roads at night dur- 
ing the assizes. At that time, all the law business of populous 
Liverpool, and also of populous Manchester, with its vast cinc- 
ture of populous rural districts, was called up by ancient usage 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 57 

to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. To break up this old 
traditional usage required, 1, a conflict with powerful established 
interests ; 2, a large system of new arrangements ; and 3, a new 
parliamentary statute. But as yet this change was merely in 
contemplation. As things were at present, twice in the year 
so vast a body of business rolled northwards from the southern 
quarter of the county, that for a fortnight at least it occupied 
the severe exertions of two judges in its despatch. The conse- 
quence of this was that every horse available for such a service, 
along the whole line of road, was exhausted in carrying down 
the multitudes of people who were parties to the different suits. 
By sunset, therefore, it usually happened that, through utter ex- 
haustion amongst men and horses, the roads sank into profound 
silence. Except the exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of 
York from a contested election, no such silence succeeding to 
no such fiery uproar was ever witnessed in England. 

On this occasion the usual silence and solitude prevailed 
along the road. Not a hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And 
to strengthen this false luxurious confidence in the noiseless 
roads, it happened also that the night was one of peculiar so- 
lemnity and peace. For my own part, though slightly alive to 
the possibilities of peril, I had so far yielded to the influence 
of the mighty calm as to sink into a profound reverie. The 
month was August, in the middle of which lay my own birth- 
day — a festival to every thoughtful man suggesting solemn 
and often sigh-born thoughts. The county was my own native 
county — upon which, in its southern section, more than upon 
any equal area known to man past or present, had descended 
the original curse of labor in its heaviest form, not mastering 
the bodies only of men as of slaves, or criminals in mines, but 
working through the fiery will. Upon no equal space of earth 
was, or ever had been, the same energy of human power put 
forth daily. At this particular season also of the assizes, that 
dreadful hurricane of flight and pursuit, as it might have 
seemed to a stranger, which swept to and from Lancaster all 
day long, hunting the county up and down, and regularly sub- 
siding back into silence about sunset, could not fail (when 
united with this permanent distinction of Lancashire as the 
very metropolis and citadel of labor) to point the thoughts 
pathetically upon that counter vision of rest, of saintly repose 
from strife and sorrow, towards which, as to their secret haven, 



58 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

the profounder aspirations of man's heart are in solitude con- 
tinually travelling. Obliquely upon our left we were nearing 
the sea, which also must, under the present circumstances, be 
repeating the general state of halcyon repose. The sea, the 
atmosphere, the light, bore each an orchestral part in this uni- 
versal lull. Moonlight and the first timid tremblings of the 
dawn were by this time blending ; and the blendings were 
brought into a still more exquisite state of unity by a slight 
silvery mist, motionless and dreamy, that covered the woods 
and fields, but with a veil of equable transparency. Except the 
feet of our own horses, which, running on a sandy margin of 
the road, made but little disturbance, there was no sound 
abroad. In the clouds and on the earth prevailed the same 
majestic peace ; and in spite of all that the A'illain of a school- 
master has done for the ruin of our sublimer thoughts, which 
are the thoughts of our infancy, we still believe in no such 
nonsense as a limited atmosphere. Whatever we may swear 
with our false, feigning lips, in our faithful hearts we still 
believe, and must forever believe, in fields of air traversing 
tlie total gulf between earth and the central heavens. Still in 
the confidence of children that tread without fear every cham- 
ber in their father's house, and to whom no door is closed, we, 
in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour 
upon nights like this, ascend with easy steps from the sorrow- 
stricken fields of earth, upwards to the sandals of God. 

Suddenly, from thoughts like these, I was awakened to a 
sullen sound, as of some motion on the distant road. It stole 
upon the air for a moment ; I listened in awe ; but then it died 
away. Once roused, however, I could not but observe with 
alarm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years' experi- 
ence had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion ; and I 
saw that we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pre- 
tend to no presence of mind. On the contrary, my fear is that 
I am miserably and shamefully deficient in that quality as 
regards action. The palsy of doubt and distraction hangs like 
some guilty weight of dark, unfathomed remembrances upon 
my energies, when the signal is flying for action. But, on the 
other hand, this accursed gift I have as regards thought, that 
in the first step towards the possibility of a misfortune, I see 
its total evolution ; in the radix of the series I see too certainly 
and too instantly its entire expansion ; in the first syllable of 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 69 

the dreadful sentence, I read already the last. It was not that 
I feared for ourselves. Us, our bulk and impetus charmed 
against peril in any collision. And I had ridden through too 
many hundreds of perils that were frightful to approach, that 
were matter of laughter to look back upon, — the first face of 
which was horror, the parting face a jest, — for any anxiety to 
rest upon our interests. The mail was not built, I felt assured, 
nor bespoke, that could betray me who trusted to its protec- 
tion. But any carriage that we could meet would be frail and 
light in comparison of ourselves. And I remark this ominous 
accident of our situation. We were on the wrong side of the 
road. But then, it may be said, the other party, if other there 
was, might also be on the wrong side ; and two wrongs might 
make a right. That was not likely. The same motive which 
had drawn us to the right-hand side of the road — viz., the 
luxury of the soft beaten sand, as contrasted with the paved 
centre — would prove attractive to others. The two adverse 
carriages would therefore, to a certainty, be travelling on the 
same side ; and from this side, as not being ours in law, the 
crossing over to the other would, of course, be looked for from 
us. Our lamps, still lighted, would give the impression of vigi- 
lance on our part. And every creature that met us, would rely 
upon us for quartering. All this, and if the separate links of 
the anticipation had been a thousand times more, I saw, not 
discursively, or by effort, or by succession, but by one flash of 
horrid simultaneous intuition. 

Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil 
which viight be gathering ahead, ah ! what a sullen mystery 
of fear, what a sigh of woe, was that which stole upon the air, 
as again the far-off sound of a wheel was heard ? A whisper 
it was — a whisper from, perhaps, four miles off — secretly 
announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less inevi- 
table ; that, being known, was not, therefore, healed. What 
could be done — who was it that could do it — to check the 
storm-flight of these maniacal horses ? Could I not seize the 
reins from the grasp of the slumbering coachman ? You, 
reader, think that it would have been in your power to do so. 
And I quarrel not with your estimate of yourself. But, from 
the way in which the coachman's hand was viced between his 
upper and lower thigh, this was impossible. Easy, was it ? 
See, then, that bronze equestrian statue. The cruel rider has 



60 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

kept the bit in his horse's mouth for two centuries. Unbridle 
him, for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth with 
water. Easy, was it? Unhorse me, then, that imperial rider; 
knock me those marble feet from those marble stirrups of 
Charlemagne. 

The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the 
sounds of wheels. Who and what could it be ? Was it indus- 
try in a taxed cart ? Was it youthful gayety in a gig ? Was it 
sorrow that loitered, or joy that raced ? For as yet the snatches 
of sound were too intermitting, from distance, to decipher the 
character of the motion. Whoever were the travellers, some- 
thing must be done to warn them. Upon the other party rests 
the active responsibility, but upon us — and, woe is me ! that its 
was reduced to my frail opium-shattered self — rests the respon- 
sibility of warning. Yet how should this be accomplished ? 
Might I not sound the guard's horn ? Already, on the first 
thought, I was making my way over the roof to the guard's seat. 
But this, from the accident which I have mentioned of the for- 
eign mails' being piled upon the roof, was a difficult and even 
dangerous attempt to one cramped by nearly three hundred miles 
of outside travelling. And, fortunately, before I had lost much 
time in the attempt, our frantic horses swept round an angle of 
the road which opened upon us that final stage where the col- 
lision must be accomplished, and the catastrophe sealed. All 
was apparently finished. The court was sitting ; the case was 
heard ; the judge had finished ; and the only verdict was yet 
in arrear. 

Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred 
yards, perhaps, in length ; and the umbrageous trees, which rose 
in a regular line from either side, meeting high overhead, gave 
to it the character of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper 
solemnity to the early light ; but there was still light enough 
to perceive, at the further end of this Gothic aisle, a frail reedy 
gig, in which were seated a young man, and by his side a young 
lady. Ah, young sir ! what are you about ? If it is requisite 
that you should whisper your communications to this young lady 
— though really I see nobody, at an hour and on a road so soli- 
tary, likely to overhear you — is it therefore requisite that you 
should carry your lips forward to hers ? The little carriage is 
creeping on at one mile an hour ; and the parties within it, being 
thus tenderly engaged, are naturally bending down their heads. 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 61 

Between them and eternity, to all human calculation, there is 
but a minute and a half. Oh, heavens! what is it that I shall 
do ? Speaking or acting, what help can I offer ? Strange it is, 
and to a mere auditor of the tale might seem laughable, that I 
should need a suggestion from the Iliad to prompt the sole 
resource that remained. Yet so it was. Suddenly I remembered 
the shout of Achilles, and its effect. But could I pretend to 
shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas ? No: but then I 
needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia militant ; such 
a shout would suffice as might carry terror into the hearts of 
two thoughtless young people, and one gig horse. I shouted — 
and the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted 
— and now he heard me, for now he raised his head. 

Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done: more 
on my part was not possible. Mine had been the first step; the 
second was for the young man ; the third was for God. If, said 
I, this stranger is a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the 
young girl at his side — or, loving her not, if he feels the 
obligation, pressing upon every man worthy to be called a man, 
of doing his utmost for a woman confided to his protection — he 
will, at least, make some effort to save her. If that fails, he 
will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for having 
made it ; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face 
to the danger and with his arm about the woman that he sought 
in vain to save. But if he makes no effort, shrinking, without 
a struggle, from his duty, he himself will not the less certainly 
perish for this baseness of poltroonery. He will die no less: and 
Avhy not ? Wherefore should we grieve that there is one craven 
less in the world ? No ; let him perish, without a pitying 
thought of ours wasted upon him ; and, in that case, all our 
grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl who now, 
upon the least shadow of failure in him, must, by the fiercest of 
translations — must, without time for a prayer — must, within 
seventy seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God. 

.But craven he was not : sudden had been the call upon him, 
and sudden was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he 
comprehended the ruin that was coming down : already its 
gloomy shadow darkened above him ; and already he was meas- 
uring his strength to deal with it. Ah ! what a vulgar thing 
does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it 
for a shilling a day ; ah ! what a sublime thing does courage 



62 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

seem, when some fearful summons on the great deeps of life 
carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy 
crest of some tumultuous crisis from which lie two courses, and 
a voice says to him audibly, " One way lies hope ; take the 
other, and mourn forever!" How grand a triumph, if, even 
then, amidst the raving of all around him, and the frenzy of the 
danger, the man is able to confront his situation, — is able to 
retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek his 
counsel from Him I 

For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger 
settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as if to search 
and value every element in the conflict before him. For five 
seconds more of his seventy he sat immovably, like one that 
mused on some great purpose. For five more, perhaps, he sat 
with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sorrow, under some 
extremity of doubt, for light that should guide him to the 
better choice. Then suddenly he rose ; stood upright ; and by a 
powerful strain upon the reins, raising his horse's fore-feet from 
the ground, he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind-legs, 
so as to plant the little equipage in a position nearly at right 
angles to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved, ex- 
cept as a first step had been taken towards the possibility of a 
second. If no more were done, nothing was done ; for the little 
carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in 
an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late ; 
fifteen of the seventy seconds may still be unexhausted ; and 
one almighty bound may avail to clear the ground. Hurry, 
then, hurry ! for the flying moments — they hurry ! Oh, hurry, 
hurry, my brave young man ! for the cruel hoofs of our horses 
— they also hurry ! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the 
hoofs of our horses. But fear not for him. if human energy 
can suffice ; faithful Avas he that drove to his terrific duty ; 
faithful was the horse to his command. One blow, one im- 
pulse given with voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from 
the horse, one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, landed 
the docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown or arching centre 
of the road. The larger half of the little equipage had thou 
cleared our overtowering shadow, — that was evident even to 
my own agitated sight. But it mattered little that one wreck 
should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were 
embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage 



THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH 63 

— was that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin ? What 
power could answer the question ? Glance of eye, thought of 
man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep 
between the question and the answer, and divide the one from 
the other ? Light does not tread upon the steps of light more 
indivisibly than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escap- 
ing efforts of the gig. That must the young man have felt too 
plainly. His back was now turned to us ; not by sight could 
he any longer communicate with the peril ; but by the dreadful 
rattle of our harness, too truly had his ear been instructed — 
that all was finished as regarded any further effort of his. Al- 
ready in resignation he had rested from his struggle ; and per- 
haps in his heart he was whispering, *' Father, which art in 
heaven, do thou finish above what I on earth have attemi^ted." 
Faster than ever mill-race we ran past them in our inexorable 
flight. Oh, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in 
their young ears at the moment of our transit ! Even in that 
moment the thunder of collision spoke aloud. Either with the 
swingle-bar or with the haunch of our near leader, we had 
struck the off wheel of the little gig, which stood rather 
obliquely and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately 
parallel with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our 
passage, resounded terrifically. I rose in horror to gaze upon 
the ruins we might have caused. From my elevated station I 
looked down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a moment 
told its own tale, and wrote all its records on my heart forever. 

Here was the map of the passion that now had finished. The 
horse was planted immovably, with his fore-feet upon the paved 
crest of the central road. He of the whole party might be 
supposed untouched by the passion of death. The little cany 
carriage — partly, perhaps, from the violent torsion of the 
wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow 
Ave had given to it — as if it sympathized with human horror, 
was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man 
trembled not, nor shivered. He sat like a rock. But his was 
the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet 
he dared not to look round ; for he knew that, if anything re- 
mained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as 5'et 
he knew not for certain if their safety were accomplished. But 
the lady 

But the lady ! Oh, heavens ! will that spectacle ever 



64 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, 
sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at 
some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, de- 
spairing ? Figure to yourself, reader, the elements of the case ; 
suffer me to recall before your mind the circumstances of that 
unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this 
saintly summer night — from the pathetic blending of this sweet 
moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight — from the manly tenderness 
of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love — suddenly as 
from the woods and fields — suddenly as from the chambers of 
the air opening in revelation — suddenly as from the ground 
yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cata- 
racts. Death, the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his 
terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice. 

The moments were numbered ; the strife was finished ; the 
vision was closed. In the twinkling of an eye, our flying horses 
had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle ; at 
right angles we wheeled into our former direction ; the turn of 
the road carried the scene out of my eyes in an instant^ and swept 
it into my dreams forever. 



DREAM-FUGUE 65 



SECTION THE THIED — DEE AM-EUGUE 

FOUNDED ON THE PRECEDING THEME OF SUDDEN DEATH 

" Whence the sound 
Of instruments, that made melodious chime, 
Was heard, of harp and organ ; and who moved 
Their stops and chords, was seen; his volant touch 
Instinct through all proportions, low and high, 
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue." 

Paradise Lost, book xi. 

Tumultuosissimamente. 

Passion of sudden death ! that once in youth I read and 
interpreted by the shadows of thy averted signs ! — rapture of 
panic taking the shape (which amongst tombs in churches I 
have seen) of woman bursting her sepulchral bonds — of wo- 
man's Ionic form bending from the ruins of her grave with 
arching foot, with eyes upraised, with clasped, adoring hands — 
waiting, watching, trembling, praying for the trumpet's call to 
rise from dust forever! Ah, vision too fearful of shuddering 
humanity on the brink of almighty abysses ! — vision that didst 
start back, that didst reel away, like a shrivelling scroll from 
before the wrath of fire racing on the wings of the wind ! Epi- 
lepsy so brief of horror, wherefore is it that thou canst not die ? 
Passing so suddenly into darkness, wherefore is it that still thou 
sheddest thy sad funeral blights upon the gorgeous mosaics of 
dreams ? Fragment of music too passionate, heard once, and 
heard no more, what aileth thee, that thy deep rolling chords 
come up at intervals through all the worlds of sleep, and, after 
forty years, have lost no element of horror ? 



Lo, it is summer — almighty summer ! The everlasting gates 
of life and summer are thrown open wide, and on the ocean, 
tranquil and verdant as a savannah, the unknown lady from the 
dreadful vision and I myself are floating — she upon a fiery pin- 
nace, and I upon an English three-decker. Both of us are wooing 
gales of festal happiness within the domain of our common 
country, within that ancient watery park, within that pathless 



66 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

chase of ocean, where England takes her pleasures as a huntress 
through winter and summer, from the rising to the setting sun. 
Ah, what a wilderness of floral beauty was hidden, or was sud- 
denly revealed, upon the tropic islands through which the pin- 
nace moved! And upon her deck what a bevy of human flowers, 

— young women how lovely, young men how noble, that were 
dancing together, and slowly drifting towards us amidst mu- 
sic and incense, amidst blossoms from forests and gorgeous 
corymbi from vintages, amidst natural carolling and the echoes 
of sweet girlish laughter. Slowly the pinnace nears us, gayly 
she hails us. and silently she disappears beneath the shadow of 
our mighty bows. But then, as at some signal from heaven, the 
music, and the carols, and the sweet echoing of girlish laughter 

— all are hushed. What evil has smitten the pinnace, meeting 
or overtaking her ? Did ruin to our friends couch within our 
own dreadful shadow ? Was our shadow the shadow of death ? 
I looked over the bow for an answer, and, behold ! the pinnace 
was dismantled ; the revel and the revellers were found no more ; 
the glory of the vintage was dust ; and the forests with their 
beauty were left without a witness upon the seas. " But where," 
and I turned to our crew, " where are the lovely women that 
danced beneath the awning of flowers and clustering corymbi! 
Whither have fled the noble young men that danced with t/iem?" 
Answer there was none. But suddenly the man at the masthead, 
whose countenance darkened with alarm, cried out, " Sail on the 
weather beam ! Down she comes upon us : in seventy seconds 
she also will founder." 



II 

I looked to the weather side, and the summer had departed. 
The sea was rocking, and shaken with gathering wrath. Upon 
its surface sat mighty mists, which grouped themselves into 
arches and long cathedral aisles. Down one of these, with the 
fiery pace of a quarrel from a cross-bow, ran a frigate right 
athwart our course. " Are they mad ? " some voice exclaimed 
from our deck. " Do they woo their ruin ? " But in a moment, 
as she was close upon us, some impulse of a heady current or 
local vortex gave a Avheeling bias to her course, and ofi" she 
forged without a shock. As she ran past us, high aloft amongst 
the shrouds stood the lady of the pinnace. The deeps opened 



UKEAM-FUGUE 67 

ahead in malice to receive her, towering surges of foam ran after 
her, the billows were tierce to catch her. But far away she was 
borne into desert spaces of the sea : whilst still by sight I fol- 
lowed her as she ran before the howling gale, chased by angry 
sea-birds and by maddening billows ; still I saw her, as at the mo- 
ment when she ran past us, standing amongst the shrouds, with 
her white draperies streaming before the wind. There she stood, 
with hair dishevelled, one hand clutched amongst the tackling 
— rising, sinking, fluttering, trembling, praying — there for 
leagues I saw her as she stood, raising at intervals one hand to 
heaven, amidst the fiery crests of the pursuing waves and the 
raving of the storm ; until at last, upon a sound from afar of 
malicious laughter and mockery, all was hidden forever in driv- 
ing showers; and afterwards, but when I know not, nor how, 

III 

Sweet funeral bells from some incalculable distance, wailing 
over the dead that die before the dawn, awakened me as I 
slept in a boat moored to some familiar shore. The morning 
twilight even then was breaking ; and, by the dusky revela- 
tions which it spread, I saw a girl, adorned with a garland of 
white roses about her head for some great festival, running 
along the solitary strand in extremity of haste. Her running 
was the running of panic ; and often she looked back as to 
some dreadful enemy in the rear. But when I leaped ashore, 
and followed on her steps to warn her of a peril in front, alas ! 
from me she fled as from another peril, and vainly I shouted to 
her of quicksands that lay ahead. Faster and faster she ran ; 
round a promontory of rocks she wheeled out of sight ; in an 
instant I also wheeled round it, but only to see the treacherous 
sands gathering above her head. Already her person was bur- 
ied : only the fair young head and the diadem of white roses 
around it were still visible to the pitying heavens : and, last 
of. all, was visible one white marble arm. I saw by the early 
twilight this fair young head as it was sinking down to dark- 
ness — saw this marble arm as it rose above her head and her 
treacherous grave, tossing, faltering, rising, clutching as at some 
false, deceiving hand stretched out from the clouds — saw this 
marble arm uttering her dying hope, and then uttering her 
dying despair. The head, the diadem, the arm, — these all had 



68 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

sunk ; at last over these also the cruel quicksand had closed ; 
and no memorial of the fair young girl remained on earth, 
except ray own solitary tears, and the funeral bells from the 
desert seas, that, rising again more softly, sang a requiem over 
the grave of the buried child, and over her blighted dawn. 

I sat, and wept in secret the tears that men have ever given 
to the memory of those that died before the dawn, and by the 
treachery of earth, our mother. But suddenly the tears and 
funeral bells were hushed by a shout as of many nations, and 
by a roar as from some great king's artillery, advancing rapidly 
along the valleys, and heard afar by echoes from the moun- 
tains. " Hush ! " I said, as I bent my ear earthwards to listen, 

— " hush ! — this either is the very anarchy of strife, or else " 

— and then I listened more profoundly, and whispered as I 
raised my head — " or else, oh heavens ! it is victory that is 
final, victory that swallows up all strife." 

IV 

Immediately, in trance, I was carried over land and sea to 
some distant kingdom, and placed upon a triumphal car, 
amongst companions crowned with laurel. The darkness of 
gathering midnight, brooding over all the land, hid from us 
the mighty crowds that were weaving restlessly about ourselves 
as a centre : we heard them, but saw them not. Tidings had 
arrived within an hour of a grandeur that measured itself 
against centuries ; too full of pathos they were, too full of joy, 
to utter themselves by other language than by tears, by restless 
anthems, and Te Deums reverberated from the choirs and 
orchestras of earth. These tidings we that sat upon the lau- 
relled car had it for our privilege to publish amongst all 
nations. And already, by signs audible through the darkness, 
by snortings and tramplings, our angry horses, that knew no 
fear of fleshy weariness, upbraided us with delay. Wherefore 
was it that we delayed ? We waited for a secret word that 
should bear witness to the hope of nations as now accom- 
plished forever. At midnight the secret word arrived ; which 
word was — Waterloo and Recovered Christendom ! The 
dreadful word shone by its own light ; before us it went ; high 
above our leaders' heads it rode, and spread a golden light over 
the paths which we traversed. Every city, at the presence of 



DREAM-FUGUE 69 

the secret word, threw open its gates. The rivers were con- 
scious as we crossed. All the forests, as we ran along their 
margins, shivered in homage to the secret word. And the 
darkness comprehended it. 

Two hours after midnight we approached a mighty Minster. 
Its gates, which rose to the clouds, were closed. But when 
the dreadful word that rode before us reached them with its 
golden light, silently they moved back upon their hinges ; and 
at a flying gallop our equipage entered the grand aisle of the 
cathedral. Headlong was our pace ; and at every altar, in the 
little chapels and oratories to the right hand and left of our 
course, the lamps, dying or sickening,. kindled anew in sympathy 
with the secret word that was flying past. Forty leagues we 
might have run in the cathedral, and as yet no strength of 
morning light had reached us when before us we saw the aerial 
galleries of organ and choir. Every pinnacle of the fretwork, 
every station of advantage amongst the traceries, was crested by 
white-robed choristers, that sang deliverance ; that wept no 
more tears, as once their fathers had wept ; but at intervals 
that sang together to the generations, saying, — 

"Chant the deliverer's praise in every tongue," 

and receiving answers from afar, — 

"Such as once in heaven and earth were sung." 

And of their chanting was no end ; of our headlong pace was 
neither pause nor slackening. 

Thus, as we ran like torrents — thus, as we swept with 
bridal rapture over the Campo Santo of the cathedral graves 
— suddenly we became aware of a vast necropolis rising upon 
the far-off horizon — a city of sepulchres, built within the 
saintly cathedral for the warrior dead that rested from their 
feuds on earth. Of purple granite was the necropolis ; yet, in 
the first minute, it lay like a purple stain upon the horizon, so 
mighty was the distance. In the second minute it trembled 
through many changes, growing into terraces and towers of won- 
drous altitude, so mighty was the pace. In the third minute 
already, with our dreadful gallop, we were entering its suburbs. 
Vast sarcophagi rose on every side, having towers and turrets 
that, upon the limits of the central aisle, strode forward with 
haughty intrusion, that ran back with mighty shadows into 
answering recesses. Every sarcophagus showed many bas-reliefs. 



70 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 

bas-reliefs of battles and of battle-fields, — battles from for- 
gotten ages, battles from yesterday, battle-fields that, long 
since, nature had healed and reconciled to herself with the 
sweet oblivion of flowers, battle-fields that were yet angry and 
crimson with carnage. Where the terraces ran, there did we 
run ; where the towers curved, there did tve curve. With the 
flight of swallows our horses swept round every angle. Like 
rivers in flood, wheeling round headlands, like hurricanes 
that ride into the secrets of forests, faster than ever light un- 
wove the mazes of darkness, our flying equipage carried earthly 
passions, kindled warrior instincts, amongst the dust that lay 
around us, — dust oftentimes of our noble fathers that had slept 
in God from Crecy to Trafalgar. And now had we reached the 
last sarcophagus, now were we abreast of the last bas-relief, 
already had we recovered the arrow-like flight of the illimitable 
central aisle, when coming up this aisle to meet us we beheld 
afar off a female child, that vode in a carriage as frail as flowers. 
The mists which went before her hid the fawns that drew her, 
but could not hide the shells and tropic flowers with which she 
played, — but could not hide the lovely smiles by which she 
uttered her trust in the mighty cathedral, and in the cherubim 
that looked down upon her from the mighty shafts of its pil- 
lars. Face to face she was meeting us; face to face she rode, as 
if danger there were none. " Oh, baby ! " I exclaimed, " shalt 
thou be the ransom for Waterloo ? Must Ave that carry 
tidings of great joy to every people be messengers of ruin to 
thee ! " In horror I rose at the thought ; but then also, in 
horror at the thought, rose one that was sculptured on a bas- 
relief — a Dying Trumpeter. Solemnly from the field of battle 
he rose to his feet ; and, unslinging his stony trumpet, carried 
it, in his dying anguish, to his stony lips — sounding once, and 
yet once again, proclamation that, in thy ears, oh baby ! 
spoke from the battlements of death. Immediately deep shad- 
ows fell between us, and aboriginal silence. The choir had 
ceased to sing. The hoofs of our horses, the dreadful rattle of 
our harness, the groaning of our wheels, alarmed the graves no 
more. By horror the bas-relief had been unlocked into life. 
By horror we, that were so full of life, we men and our horses, 
with their fiery fore-legs rising in mid-air to their everlasting 
gallop, were frozen to a bas-relief. Then a third time the 
trumpet sounded ; the seals were taken ofi" all pulses ; life, and 



DREAM-FUGUE 71 

the frenzy of life, tore into their channels again ; again the 
choir burst forth in sunny grandeur, as from the muffling of 
storms and darkness ; again the thunderings of our horses car- 
ried temptation into the graves. One cry burst from our lips, 
as the clouds, drawing off from the aisle, showed it empty be- 
fore us, " Whither has the infant fled ? — is the young child 
caught up to God ? " Lo ! afar off, in a vast recess, rose three 
mighty windows to the clouds ; and on a level with their sum- 
mits, at height insuperable to man, rose an altar of purest 
alabaster. On its eastern face was trembling a crimson glory. 
A glory was it from the reddening dawn that now streamed 
through the windows ? Was it from the crimson robes of the 
martyrs painted on the windows ? Was it from the bloody 
bas-reliefs of earth ? There, suddenly, within that crimson 
vadiance, rose the apparition of a woman's head, and then of 
a woman's figure. The child it was — grown up to woman's 
height. Clinging to the horns of the altar, voiceless she stood 
— sinking, rising, raving, despairing ; and behind the volume of 
incense, that, night and day, streamed upwards from the altar, 
dimly was seen the fiery font, and the shadow of that dreadful 
being who should have baptized her with the baptism of death. 
But by her side was kneeling her better angel, that hid his face 
■with wings ; that wept and pleaded for her ; that prayed when 
she could not ; that fought with Heaven by tears for her deliv- 
erance ; which also, as he raised his immortal countenance from 
his wings, I saw, by the glory in his eye, that from Heaven he 
had vfon at last. 



Then was completed the passion of the mighty fugue. The 
golden tubes of the organ, which as yet had but muttered at 
intervals — gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense — 
threw up, as from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart- 
shattering music. Choir and anti-choir were filling fast with 
unknown voices. Thou also. Dying Trumpeter ! — with thy love 
that was victorious, and thy anguish that was finishing — didst 
enter the tumult; trumpet and echo, farewell love and fare- 
well anguish, rang through the dreadful Sanctus. Oh, dark- 
ness of the grave ! that from the crimson altar and from the 
fiery font wert visited and searched by the effulgence in the 



72 THE ENGLISH MAJL-COACH 

angel's eye — were these indeed thy children ? Pomps of life, 
that, from the burials of centuries, rose again to the voice of 
perfect joy, did ye indeed mingle with the festivals of Death ? 
Lo ! as I looked back for seventy leagues through the mighty 
cathedral, I saw the quick and the dead that sang together to 
God, together that sang to the generations of man. All the 
hosts of jubilation, like armies that ride in pursuit, moved with 
one step. Us that with laurelled heads were passing from the 
cathedral they overtook, and, as with a garment, they wrapped 
us round with thunders greater than our own. As brothers we 
moved together, — to the dawn that advanced, to the stars that 
fled ; rendering thanks to God in the highest, that, having hid 
His face through one generation behind thick clouds of War, 
once again was ascending — from the Campo Santo of Waterloo 
was ascending — in the visions of Peace ; rendering thanks for 
thee, young girl ! whom, having overshadowed with His ineffable 
passion of death, suddenly did God relent ; suffered thy angel 
to turn aside his arm ; and even in thee, sister unknown ! shown 
to me for a moment only to be hidden forever, found an occa- 
sion to glorify His goodness. A thousand times, amongst the 
phantoms of sleep, have I seen thee entering the gates of the 
golden dawn — with the secret word riding before thee — with 
the armies of the grave behind thee : seen thee sinking, rising, 
raving, despairing ; a thousand times in the worlds of sleep have 
seen thee followed by God's angel through storms ; through 
desert seas ; through the darkness of quicksands ; through 
dreams, and the dreadful revelations that are in dreams, — only 
that at the last, with one sling of His victorious arm. He might 
snatch thee back from ruin, and might emblazon in thy deliver- 
ance the endless resurrections of His love ! 



EXPLANATORY NOTES 

JOAN OF ARC 

Since De Quincey did not intend "to write the history of La 
Pucelle," the following brief account of her life may be of some assis- 
tance to the reader. Joan of Arc was born at Domremy, in 1412. 
She was the daughter of a peasant, and her childhood was spent in 
rural seclusion. When she appears in history the English hold all 
France north of the Loire, and Queen Isabella is supporting the pre- 
tensions of Henry VI of England to the French throne against the 
claims of her own son, the Dauphin, afterwards Charles VII. The 
prophecy was that France would be overwhelmed by disasters in this 
struggle with England, but would finally be delivered by a virgin from 
the forest of Domremy. Joan, insisting that voices had commanded 
her to liberate her country, finally made her way to the court of the 
Dauphin, and persuaded him to make her general of his army with full 
power of command. She raised the siege of Orleans, May 8th, 1429; 
conquered the enemy at Patay, June 18th; and enabled Charles to 
reach Rheims and be crowned, July 17th. On the 24th of May, 1430, 
she was captured by the Duke of Burgundy, who sold her to the Eng- 
lish. They, on the ground that her remarkable successes were evidences 
of witchcraft, burned her at the stake as a heretic. May 30th, 1431. 
Some of the following accounts of her career ought to be read, if one 
is to sympathize intelligently with De Quincey's attitude toward his 
heroine. 

Green's History of the English People, Vol. ii, 534—543. 

Michelet's History of France, Vol. ii, bk. x, chap, iii-iv, or 

Michelet's Joan of Arc in the Biographical Series (Houghton, MifHin 
& Co.). 

Kitchin's History of France, Vol. i, bk. iv, chap, vi-vii. 

Creasy's Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World, chap. ix. 

A complete record of her trial was kept in official notes afterwards 
edited in Latin by Pierre Cauchon. These were translated into French 
in 1868, and have been made the basis of subsequent accounts of her 
judgment and death. 
Page 1 

Arc: " Modern France, that should know a great deal better than 
myself, insists that the name is not D'Arc — i. e. of Arc — but 
Dare. Now it happens sometimes that, if a person whose position 



NOTES 

guarantees his access to the best information will content himself 
with gloomy dogmatism, striking the table with his fist, and sa}'- 
ing in a terrific voice, ' It is so, and there's an end of it,' one bows 
deferentially, and submits. But, if, unhappily for himself, won 
by this docility, he relents too amiably into reasons and argu- 
ments, probably one raises an insurrection against him that may 
never be crushed; for in the fields of logic one can skirmish, per- 
haps, as well as he. Had he confined himself to dogmatism, he 
would have intrenched his position in darkness, and have hidden 
his vulnerable points. But, coming down to base reasons, he lets 
in light, and one sees where to plant the blows. Now, the wor- 
shipful reason of modern France for disturbing the old received 
spelling is that Jean Hordal, a descendant of La Pucelle's brother, 
spelled the name Dare in 1612. But what of that? It is notorious 
that what small matter of spelling Providence had thought fit 
to disburse amongst man in the seventeenth century was all 
monopolized by printers; now, M. Hordal was not a printer." 
(De Quincey.) thought of her: the dramatic pause after the ques- 
tion might well be filled by the historian Green's estimate of 
Joan. He judges her "the one pure figure which rises out of the 
greed, the lust, the selfishness, and the unbelief of the time." 
Lorraine : since De Quincey has said so much of the influence of 
Joan's early home upon her character, the peculiar situation of 
Lorraine is worthy of attention. It was a province that, de- 
spite all its changes from kingdom to duchy, or to imperial fief, 
" managed to keep its location unchanged," — on the borderland 
between France and Germany. These two powers took turns 
in capturing it from each other. Hence it was more than a pro- 
vincial duchy; it lay in the path of all intercourse between two 
great nations, and "must stir when either moved." Add to that 
interest and alertness the patriotism of Lorraine, of which De 
Quincey makes a point later, and we shall see why he chooses to 
make Joan a Lorrainer instead of a Champenoise. the Hebrew 
shepherd boy: De Quincey 's allusion to David brings up a whole 
train of parallelisms which might be drawn between him and 
Joan, — their youth, their beauty, their occupations, their obscu- 
rity, their divine missions, etc. Cf. 1 Samuel, xvi, 2, "There re- 
maineth yet the youngest, and, behold, he keepeth the sheep;" 
1 Samuel, xvi, 12, " Now he was ruddy, and withal of a beautiful 
countenance, and goodly to look upon." Browning's description 
of the boy David bears almost the exact imprint of many of the 
old descriptions of Joan : — 

" God'.'i child, with his dew 
On thy gracious gold hair." 

Adverse armies: cf. 2 Samuel, v, 1, 3, "Then came all the tribes 
6f Israel to David, . . . and they anointed David king over 



NOTES ( .) 

Israel." from a station of good will: De Quincey lays stress upon 
this point of view because his quarrel with M. Michelet is upon 
the ground of the latter's "bitter and unfair spirit." the sceptre 
was departing from Judah: cf. Genesis, xlix, 10, "The sceptre 
shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his 
feet, until Shiloh come; and unto him shall the gathering of the 
people be." Vaucouleurs: a village near Domr^my. There Joan 
made her mission known to the captain of the town and begged 
him to send her to the French court, those that share thy blood i 
" A collateral relative of Joan's was subsequently ennobled by 
the title of Du Lys." (De Quincey.) 
Page 2 

Sleeping the sleep of the dead : cf . Psalm xiii, 3, " Consider and hear 
me, O Lord my God; lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep 
of death." apparitors: the legal term for the officer who executes 
the orders of the judge, en contumace: the legal term applied to 
one who fails to answer the summons of the court. De Quincey 
suggests here, by his choice of words, the atmosphere of the trial. 
universal France: i. e. all of France. So Milton uses the word, — 

" At which the universal host upsent 
A shout that tore Hell's concave." 

Paradise Lost, Bk. i, 540, 541. 
as even yet may happen: a papal decree, issued July 7th, 1456, 
pronounced the sentence executed upon Joan reversed, and ex- 
onerated her memory from all taint of heresy. " The thunders 
of universal PVance" are heard now in poetry, drama, painting, 
and sculpture. Southey, Schiller, Lamartine, and Voltaire have 
sounded her praises in letters; Balfe, in opera; Lenepveu, in his 
paintings in the Pantheon in Paris; and in Paris alone there 
are three statues of Joan of Arc, one of them, that in the Bou- 
levard Malesherbes, being a replica of the figure by Dubois at 
Rheims. Rouen: there in the marketplace Joan was burned 
alive. A monument to her memory now marks the spot, the 
lilies of France: the fleur-de-lis, the royal emblem of France as 
far back as the reign of Clovis. It is interesting to note in passing 
that some authorities consider the fleur-de-lis not a lily, but a 
conventionalized spear-head, in another century: the century of 
the Revolution of 1789, when Royalty was dethroned and the 
Commune established. 
Page 3 

M. Michelet (1798-1874): An eminent historian whose greatest 
work was the Histoire de France, to the writing of which he de- 
voted forty years of his life. His style abounds in emotion and 
poetic leaps and bounds which De Quincey calls " rhapsodies of 
incoherence " or the craze of "laughing gas." The " book against 
priests" may be either Du Prttre, de la Femme et de la Famille, 



76 NOTES 

or Les Jt'suites. recovered liberty: De Quincey, writing in 1847, 
refers here to the Revolution of 1830, which deposed the Bour- 
bons; and he may be prophesying also the approach of the Rev- 
olution of 1848. Chevy Chase: the baUad reads, — 

" The Pers^ owt off Northombarlande 
And a vowe to God mayd he, 
That he would hunte in the mountayns 
Off Chyviot within days thre." 

Page 4 

la Pucelle: the maid, only now forthcoming: "In 1847 began 
the publication of Joanna's trial. It was interrupted, I fear, by 
the convulsions of 1848; and whether even yet fmished I do not 
know." (De Quincey.) " The reference seems to be to Quicherat: 
Proces de condemnation et rehabilitation de Jeanne d'Arc, in five 
volumes, Paris, 1841-9." (Masson.) Hannibal: the Carthaginian 
general who contrived to cross the Alps and ravaged Italy. The 
Romans narrowly escaped destruction at his hands by defeating 
him at the Battle of Cannse, 216 b. c. Mithridates : King of Pontus, 
who contested the sovereignty of the East with Rome. '" The 
only real honor he ever received upon earth" was, probably, the 
royal funeral granted him by his conqueror, Pompey. Delenda est 
Anglia victrix: Victorious England must be destroyed! An echo of 
Cato's Delenda est Carthago. Hyder Ali: A Maharajah of British 
India, who, with his son, Tippoo, proved a formidable enemy to 
England. His champion was Edmund Burke, whose grounds for 
admiration may be found in his speech On the Nabob of Arcot's 
Debts. 

Page 5 

Napoleon: De Quincey calls him in his essay on Charlemagne "a 
sciolist for any age" and "the sole barbarian of his time, pre- 
senting in his deficiencies the picture of a low mechanic, and in 
his positive qualities the violence and brutality of a savage." 
Suffrein: often spelled Suffren: the French admiral who de- 
fended the French possessions along the Coromandel coast, and 
defeated the English so brilliantly that Hyder Ali travelled miles 
to see him, and said to him : " Heretofore I thought myself a great 
man and a great general; but now I know that you alone are a 
great man." Thereupon he placed aigrettes of diamonds, taken 
from his own turban, upon Suffren 's head. When asked by 
Suffren if he would go to the coast and see the victorious fleet, he 
replied: "I put myself out to see you only ; I will not go any 
farther." An interesting account of their common cause against 
the English may be found in Guizot's History of France, vol. vi, 
412-415. Magnanimous justice of Englishmen: what of Shake- 
speare's treatment of Joan in Henry VI f Jean: "M. Michelet 
asserts that there was a mystical meaning at that era in calling a 



NOTES 7V 

child Jean; it implied a spcret commendation of a child, if not a 
dedication, to St. John the Evangelist, the beloved disciple, the 
apostle of love and mysterious visions. But, really, as the name 
was so exceedingly common, few people will detect a mystery in 
calling a boxj by the name of Jack, though it does seem mysterious 
to call a girl Jack. It may be less so in France, where a beautiful 
practice has always prevailed of giving a boy his mother's name, 
— preceded and strengthened by a male name, as Charles Anne, 
Victor Victoire. In cases where a mother's memory has been 
unusually dear to a son, this vocal memento of her, locked into 
the circle of his own name, gives to it the tenderness of a testa- 
mentary relic or a funeral ring. I presume, therefore, that La 
Pucelle must have borne the baptismal name of Jeanne Jean ; the 
latter with no reference, perhaps, to so sublime a person as St. 
John, but simply to some relative." (De Quincey.) Champenoise : 
What M. Michelet really says is: "Jeanne's father, Jacques Dare, 
was a worthy Champenois. Jeanne, no doubt, inherited her 
disposition from this parent; she had none of the Lorraine rug- 
gedness, but much rather the Champenoise mildness; that sim- 
plicity, blended with sense and shrewdness, which is observable 
in Joinville." for no better reason: is De Quincey's reason for 
making Joan a Lorrainer any better? cis and trans: this side of 
and beyond. 

Page 6 

two mighty realms : " And reminding one of that inscription so 
greatly admired by Paul Richter, which a Russian Czarina placed 
on a guidepost near Moscow: This is the road that leads to Con- 
stantinople." (De Quincey.) Bar : a small duchy, later united to 
Lorraine, three great successive battles: At Crecy fell Rudolf of 
Lorraine; at Agincourt, Frederick of Lorraine; and the whole 
Christian army, with the third duke, was defeated in 1396 at 
Nicopolis. 

Page 7 

burden: used in this sense the word is derived from the O. E. 
hurdoun, — the bass in music; hence the burden is the heavy, 
persisting theme. hurtUng: a favorite word with the old writers. 
Cf. "And he that hurtleth with his horse adown " (Chaucer); 
" His harmefull club he gan to hurtle bye " (Spenser); " A strong 
man hurthde azens a strong man " (Wyclif's Bible, Jer. xlvi, 12). 
Crecy, Poictiers, Agincourt: battles in the Hundred Years' War, 
brought about by the English attempt to establish Edward III 
of England upon the French throne, on the ground that his 
mother, Isabelle, was sister to Charles IV, King of France, who 
had died leaving no son. The first battle after Edward had landed 
in France was at Cr^cy in 1346, in which the Black Prince won his 
first honors. Here the French were routed by "the fatal snow- 



NOTES 

storm " of white arrows from the English archers. The victory 
of Poictiers followed in 1356, won by the Black Prince alone. So 
great a victory was this that he found he had twice as many 
prisoners as soldiers, and the poor French king, John, who vowed 
that he would here wipe out the disgrace of Cr^cy, only doubled 
it. In 1380 Charles VI came to the French throne. Through some 
sudden fright he had become insane, and France divided itself 
into two factions; one following the Duke of Burgundy, one the 
Duke of Orleans, both of whom were uncles of the imbecile king. 
Henry V of England took advantage of this state of affairs to 
assert a claim to the French throne as unfounded as that of his 
great-grandfather, Edward III. He invaded France and defeated 
the French army in the brilliant battle of Agincourt in 1415. Joan 
was then about four years old. Two years later Henry captured 
Rouen, and fear of his army was so great that the French fac- 
tions began to unite against him. But in 1420, by the treaty of 
Troyes, Isabella gave her daughter to Henry for wife, disinherited 
the Dauphin, and agreed that, upon the death of Charles VI, 
Henry should succeed to the French throne. Joan's attempt to 
save the throne for the Dauphin from the hands of Henry VI 
(Henry V died soon after the treaty of Troyes) carries on the his- 
tory from this point, the insurrection of the peasantry: a carica- 
ture of that day tells the woes of the peasant, or Jacques Bon- 
homme, as he was called, in seven figures as follows: the first 
figure is the King, who says, "I levy taxes;" the second is the 
nobleman, who says, " I have a free estate;" the third is the priest, 
who says, " I take tithes;" the fourth is the merchant, who says, 
" I live by my profits;" the fifth is the hired soldier, who declares, 
"I pay for nothing;" the sixth is the beggar, saying, "I have 
nothing." Last comes the peasant, saying, "God help me, for I 
have to support king, nobleman, priest, merchant, soldier, and 
beggar! " the termination of the Crusades : through the eleventh, 
twelfth, and thirteenth centuries the crusading spirit sent many 
an army to the Holy Land to deliver the Holy Sepulchre from 
the infidels. Although they did not succeed in establishing the 
Christians in Palestine permanently, they did assure the power 
of the Eastern Empire for four hundred years, and preserved 
eastern Europe from the Mohammedans. The end of the Crusades 
meant reaction from the higher religious motives for war, which 
had united kings and nobles in a common cause, to the old petty 
struggles of avarice and ambition ; in these struggles the former 
serfs were to be a strong element, for their barons, to gain money 
to carry on the Crusades, had often sold them their liberty; and 
the kings, whose power had been unrestricted during the absence 
of their nobles, were to be a more tyrannical and self-willed ele- 
ment to deal with, the destruction of the Templars. : the Knights 



NOTES 79 

Templars was a military order established to Protect tlie pilgrims 
who journeyed to the Holy Land. When the Crusades ended, and 
there was no longer a definite work for the Templars to perform, 
the avaricious king, Philippe le Bel,wdiom Dante called "the pest 
of France," saw that it was possible for him to accuse the Tem- 
plars of leading profligate, useless lives, and, as a punishment, to 
confiscate their rich estates throughout theContinent. So, although 
the Templars had once saved his life, he arrested the Grand Mas- 
ter and certain prominent members, convicted them unjustly of 
heresy, sent them to the stake, and poured the gold which came 
from the sale of their estates into his own coffers. The "ominous 
sound" from these outrages was voiced in the legend that every 
year an armed figure issued from the Grand Master's tomb, crying, 
"Who will liberate the Holy Sepulchre?" And the portentous 
answer always was, "No one; for behold the Templars are 
destroyed." the Papal interdicts: Philippe le Bel, wanting money, 
dared, in 1296, to tax the clergy, and so received from the Pope a 
bull of censure which the king ordered to be hanged. The quarrel 
between them that ensued ended in the Pope's interdict, cutting 
off Philip " from all communion in this world and hope of salvation 
in the world to come." The Pope's second bull against Philip is 
reported to have begun: " Boniface, the Pope, to Philip the Fair, 
greeting: Know, O Supreme Prince, that thou art subject to us in 
all things." The king, thereupon, circulated this burlesque reply: 
"Philip to Boniface, little or no greeting: Be it known to thy 
Supreme Idiocy that we are subject to no man in political matters. 
Those who think otherwise we count to be fools and madmen." 
An interdict meant the suspension of all ecclesiastical functions 
and protection of the church; and this incident will serve as an 
example of many such quarrels between Pope and King which 
led to the passing of interdicts, the tragedies caused and suffered 
by the house of Anjou: the chapter of all the misfortunes of this 
family is a long one. A few of the most notable of their sufferings 
are the following. Charles of Anjou, as king of Sicily, reigned with 
a cruelty that gave rise to a revolt, known as the " Sicilian Ves- 
pers," that massacred every Frenchman on the island, lost Sicily 
to the French, and was really the cause of Charles's death from 
vexation and chagrin. The life of Ren^, Duke of Anjou, was one 
long struggle to defend his possessions and titles against rival 
claimants. Finally he retired to Provence, where he lived totally 
■ dependent upon the will of King Louis, to whom he was forced 
to promise, at his death, his duchies of Maine and Anjou. Mar- 
garet of Anjou, wife of the mad king, Henry VI, contended all 
her life to put her son Edward upon the English throne, only to 
see him killed at Tewksbury, her husband dying in the Tower of 
London, and herself obliged to return to France as a ransomed 



80 NOTES 

prisoner, the emperor: possibly Sigismund, Emperor of Ger- 
many, whose assent to the burning of Jolm Huss, as a heretic, 
led to the Hussite War, which lasted from 1419 to 1436, the year 
before the Emperor's death. Or perhaps, as Professor Hart points 
out, De Quincey refers to Konradin, the last of the Hohenstaufen, 
beheaded by Charles of Anjou at Naples in 1268. 

Page 8 

On tiptoe at Crecy: " But the fall of France was hardly so sudden 
or so incomprehensible as the ruin at a single blow of a system of 
warfare, and of the political and .social fabric which rested on it. 
Feudalism depended on the superiority of the mounted noble to 
the unmounted churl; its fighting power lay in its knighthood. 
But the English yeomen and small freeholders who bore the bow 
in the national feud had raised their weapon into a terrible engine 
of war; in the English archers Edward carried a new class of 
soldiers to the fields of France. The churl had struck down the 
noble; the yeoman proved more than a match in sheer hard 
fighting for the knight. From the day of Cr6cy feudalism tottered 
slowly but surely to its grave." (Green's Short History of the Eng- 
lish People.) Spectacle of a double pope: King Philip, after the 
death of the Pope, who had dared to excommunicate him, ap- 
pointed his own pope, from whom he exacted one tenth of the 
revenue of the church, and whom he shut up in Avignon in 1395 
for a long period derisively called "The Babylonish Captivity." 
In 1378 the Italians elected a pope at Rome, and the French per- 
sisted in electing theirs at Avignon. So was caused the "Great 
Schism," ending in 1417, when the Pope at Piome again became 
head of the Church, rents which no man should ever heal: De 
, Quincey refers here to the final separation of the Protestant from 
the Romish church as effected by Martin Luther. Misereres: 
Miserere is the first word of the 51st P.salm in the Latin version, 
meaning, have mercy. Te Deums: Te Deum laudamus, we praise 
thee, O God. The first words of a Latin hymn. 

Page 9 

Abbeys there were, etc.: Cf. Wordsworth's Peter Bell: — 

"Temples like those among the Hindoo!?, 
And mosques, and spires, and abbey windows, 
And castles all with ivy green." 

(Note of Prof. Milton Haight Turk.) 

German Diets: the legislative assemblies in the old German 
Empire: the Reichstag has taken their place to-day. the Vosges: 
these mountains were also to attract some attention in 1870, 
during the Franco-Prussian War. the Allies: England, Russia, 
Prussia, Sweden, Austria, allied against Napoleon, those mysteri- 
ous fauns; that ancient stag: in the romances of the Middle Ages 



NOTES 81 

a knight was sometimes while hunting led by a white doe or hart 
into the "Happy Other-World." Alexander the Great is said by 
Pliny to have caught a white stag, placed a gold chain about its 
neck, and set it free. Charlemagne is reported to have caught 
a white hart in the Holstein Woods. (This information should 
be credited to Professor Turk's note, which, in turn, makes 
acknowledgments to Mr. S. W. Kinney, A. M., of Baltimore and 
to Professor Manly of Chicago.) Carlovingian princes: the de- 
scendants of Charlemagne, or Carolus Magnus. 

Page 10 

Marquis: from the word mark or march, meaning boundary. Sir 
Roger de Coverley: when Will Wimble appealed to Sir Roger as 
a representative of the law to settle a dispute between himself and 
Tom Touchy, Sir Roger replied, with tactful impartiality, " There 's 
much to be said on both sides." See The Spectator, No. xx. the 
desert between Syria and the Euphrates: known as the Syrian, 
sometimes the Bedouin desert. Bergereta: shepherdess; the 
French noun bergerette with the Latin feminine ending; possibly 
a form of late Latin. 

Page 11 

M. Simond in his "Travels: " De Quincey quotes this story more 
than once in the course of his writings. (Masson.) praedial servant: 
prcedial formerly had the restricted meaning of service owed by 
one as a tenant of the land; probably De Quincey uses it here 
more loosely for farm servant. Friday: the young Indian on the 
Island of Juan Fernandez whom Defoe's Robinson Crusoe saved 
from death on Friday (hence his name) , and kept as his servant. 

Page 12 

Chevalier of St. Louis: a knight of the order of St. Louis, founded 
by Louis XIV in 1693 for military service, and taking its name 
from Louis IX, who, dying during a crusade against Tunis in 1270, 
was canonized by the Pope. Chevalier, as-tu donne au cochon a 
manger ? Chevalier, have you fed the hog? Ma fille, as-tu donne 
au cochon a manger ? My daxighter, have you fed the hogf Pucelle 
d'Orleans, as-tu sauve les fleurs-de-lys ? Maid of Orleans, have 
you saved the kingdom? If the man that turnips cries, etc.: 
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations credits this stanza to Madame 
Piozzi's Johnsoniana. Oriflamme: the flame of gold; the banner 
of St. Denis carried in war before the king of France as a con- 
secrated flag and the special royal ensign. Cf. Macaulay's line 
in The Battle of Ivry : — 

"And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 

Southey's Joan of Arc : as an attempt at an epic, undertaken in 
Southey's nineteenth year and wTitten in six weeks, it is a some- 
what crude performance. Chinon: a town near Tours. The room 



82 NOTKS 

in the royal apartments there where Charles VII first saw Joan 
can still be visited, coup d'essai: first trial. 

Page 13 

pricks for sheriffs: the Lord Lieutenant of the county draws up 
a list of three names for sheriff. The Sovereign then, without 
looking at the names, pierces the paper twice, and those whose 
names are pricked are declared appointed. Cf. the use of the 
word in Shakespeare : — 

"These many then shall die ; their names are pricked.''' 

Julius CcBsnr, IV, 1. 
Lady of the Islands and the Orient: the royal title, of which De 
Quincey's words seem prophetic, is now Queen of Great Britain 
and Ireland and Empress of India, the latter having been formally 
proclaimed as belonging to Victoria at Delhi, January 1st, 1877. 
On the throne: Southey's Joan of Arc, Bk. iii, 1. 235 ff. un peu 
fort: a little too strong, he had no crown: because the English 
declared Charles VII illegitimate and set up the claim of Henry VI 
in his place: their power in northern France had prevented the 
crowning and consecration of Charles at Rheims. Rheims: the 
cathedral at Rheims was the historic place for the coronation of 
the French kings from Philip II to Charles X. It was the French 
Westminster Abbey, ampulla: the vase in which the holy oil 
for coronation was kept. This one, according to the legend, was 
brought from heaven by an angel for the coronation of the French 
king Clovis in 486. 

Page 14 

the English boy: Henry VI, who was proclaimed king of France 
and England in 1422, Charles VI of France and Henry V of 
England having both died in that year, the ovens of Rheims: is 
De Quincey really thinking of the famous bakeries of Rheims, and 
perhaps playing upon the word ovens, which may mean also the 
inmost sanctuaries of a cathedral where a king might be crowned? 
Tindal's "Christianity as Old as the Creation: " published in 1730, 
and often called the "Bible of Theism." a parte ante: from the 
past, because Joan's speech was made three hundred years before 
Tindal's book was written. Cottle: Southey's publisher in Bris- 
tol, depositions: testimonies given by the witnesses. Oh, what 
a multitude, etc. : Paradise Regained, i, 196-205. 

Page 15 

France Delivered: is De Quincey echoing Tasso's title, Jerusalem 
Delivered f 

Page 16 

Battle of Patay: " The battle began on the 18th of June at Patay, 
between Orleans and Chauteaudun. By Joan's advice the French 
attacked. ' In the name of God,' she said, ' we must fight. Though 
the English were suspended from the clouds we should have them, 



NOTES 83 

for God hath sent <is to punish them. The gentle King shall have 
to-day the greatest victory he has ever had; my counsel hath told 
me they are ours.' The English lost heart in their turn; the battle 
wasshort, and the victory brilliant." (Guizot.) Troyes : before the 
town of Troyes Joan was summoned before the council of the 
king's generals to answer whether or not she approved of their 
giving up the idea of taking the town. " Joan, turning to the king, 
asked him if he would believe her. ' Speak,' said the King; ' if you 
say what is reasonable and tends to profit, readily will you be 
beheved.' 'Gentle King of France,' said Joan, 'if you be willing 
to abide here before your town of Troyes, it shall be at your 
disposal within two days by love or by force; make no doubt of it.' 
' Joan,' replied the chancellor, ' whoever could be certain of having 
it within six days might well wait for it; but say you true?' Joan 
repeated her assertion ; and it was decided to wait. Joan mounted 
her horse, and, with her banner in her hand, she went through the 
camp, giving orders everywhere to prepare for the assault. She 
had her own tent pitched close to the ditch, ' doing more,' says 
a contemporary, 'than two of the ablest captains would have 
done.' On the next day, July 10th, all was ready. Joan had the 
fascines thrown into the ditches, and was shouting out ' Assault! ' 
when the inhabitants of Troyes, burgesses and men-at-arms, came 
demanding permission to capitulate." (Guizot.) she crowned 
him: "It was solemn and emotional, as are all old national 
traditions which recur after a forced suspension. Joan rode 
between Dunois and the Archbishop of Rheims, chancellor of 
France. The air resounded with the Te Deum sung with all their 
hearts by the clergy and the crowd. ' In God's name,' said Joan to 
Dunois, ' here is a good people and a devout; when I die, I should 
much like to be in these parts.' 'Joan,' inquired Dunois, 'know 
you when you will die and in what place?' ' I know not,' said she, 
'for I am at the will of God.' Then she added, 'I have accom- 
plished that which my Lord commanded me, — to raise the siege 
of Orleans and have the gentle King crowned. I would like it well 
if it should please him to send me back to my father and mother, 
to keep their sheep and cattle, and do that which was my wont.' " 
(Guizot.) excepting one man : from Orleans to Rheims, Magon, the 
president of the council, strongly championed Joan. Dunois, also, 
sincerely admired her, and Schiller represents him as her lover. 
the uncles of Henry VI: the Dukes of Bedford and Gloucester; 
the former was appointed by Henry V at his death Regent of 
France, while the latter was left Lord Protector of England. 

Page 17 

Nolebat, etc.: she hesitated to use her sword or to kill any one. 

Page 18 

Compifegne; this town was regarded as the important gate of the 



84 NOTES 

road between Ile-de-France and Picardy; and the Duke of Bur- 
gundy attached much importance to holding it. There Joan 
fought her last fight, in May, and, being taken, became the pris- 
oner of Count John for six months. In November she was sold 
to the English, and on January 3d, 1431, an order from Henry VI 
placed her in the hands of Pierre Cauchon, the Bishop of Beau- 
vais. Some thought that the French officers, seeing the merit of 
every victory ascribed to her, had willingly exposed her to capture. 
her trial: it lasted from Feb. 21st to May 30th. The court held 
four sittings, mostly in Joan's prison, where she was manacled and 
chained, and guarded by four or five rough common soldiers. For 
a vivid description of her trial, including a good sketch of the 
character of the Bishop of Beauvais, read Kitchin's History of 
France, m, 125-139. Bishop that art : a reminder of the witches' 
prophecy, — 

"All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis! 

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor! 

All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! " 

Macbeth, I, 3. 

triple crown: the pope's tiara was composed of a cap of gold 
cloth, surrounded by three coronets, and surmounted by a ball 
and cross of gold. 

Page 19 

Dominican: one of the order of friars founded in 1216 by St. 
Dominic of Languedoc. to entrap her: history says that Joan, 
when questioned as to matters upon which she felt she had a 
perfect right to keep silence, used to reply, "Go on to something 
else," with a quiet authority that dumbfounded her inquisitors. 
Man and woman should leave, etc. : cf . Genesis, ii, 24. 

Page 20 

Nostalgia: from the Greek, v6(Tros, the return, and iAyos, grief; 
homesickness. Mozart, Wolfgang: 1756-1791 ; the Austrian com- 
poser, among whose greatest works are Don Giovanni, The Magic 
Fhde, and the Requiem. Phidias: the Athenian sculptor and ar- 
chitect of the age of Pericles. Among the works ascribed to 
him are the Temple of Theseus, the gold and ivor}' Athene of the 
Parthenon, the Olympian Zeus at Elis, and figures in the frieze 
of the Parthenon. Pericles entrusted to him largely the beauti- 
fying of the whole city of Athens. Michael Angelo: 1475-1564; 
Italian sculptor, painter, architect, poet. The David of the Sig- 
noria, the Moses of San Pietro in Vincoli, and the PietA in St. 
Peter's are some of his greatest pieces of sculpture; his best 
known paintings are the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel and the 
Last Judgment; of his poetry we have a few sonnets to Vit- 
toria Colonna; and the fortifications of San Miniato still bear 
witness to his skill as an architect, bringing together from the 



NOTKS 85 

four winds: cf. "Come from the four winds, O breath, and 
breathe upon these slain, that they may Uve." (Ezekiel, xxxvii, 9.) 

Page 21 

Milton: John Milton, 1608-1674; English poet and master of 
prose. Paradise Lost, the great English epic, being his greatest 
poem, and the Defensio pro Populo Anglicano, in Latin, and the 
Areopagitica, in English, his greatest prose works. Tellurians: 
inhabitants of the earth, tellus. St. Peter's ... on Easter: when 
the interior shines in its full glory after the mourning draperies 
of Lent have been removed, when the clergy wear their richest 
robes and jewels, and bright throngs of worshippers pour in and 
out of the church all day. Luxor: probably the site of ancient 
Thebes, whose chief spectacle is the temple built by Rameses II, 
from which a great dromos of sphinxes leads to Karnak. Hima- 
layas : the mountains of the " Snow Abode," containing some of the 
highest peaks in the world. De Quincey has brought his climax 
up to the wonders of God. Marie Antoinette: the queen of Louis 
XVI, imprisoned and executed in 1793 during the Reign of Terror. 
For a graphic account of her martyrdom see Carlyle's French 
Revolution, Bk. vi, chap, vii: a daughter of Caesars because she 
was the daughter of Maria Theresa and the German Emperor 
Francis I, who, as a successor of Charlemagne, would claim his 
right to be called the head of the Holy Roman Empire. Charlotte 
Corday: another martyr of the French Revolution, who, influ- 
enced by her horror at the cruelties of the Reign of Terror, went 
to Paris in 1793, gained admission to Marat, the most terrible 
of the Revolutionists, and stabbed him. She, too, was tried by 
the commune and sent to the guillotine. 

Page 22 

Grafton: chronicler and printer to Edward VI. He printed The 
Great Bible, a work which was stopped by the French govern- 
ment. Grafton fled to England, but Cromwell later rescued his 
type and brought it to England, where the work was published. 
Grafton also was the printer of the first Book of Common Prayer, 
in 1549. Holinshed: died about 1580. His great work was 
Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland. No one has made 
better use of his chronicles than Shakespeare in some of his 
historical plays and tragedies. Holinshed says of Joan: "Of 
favor she was counted likesome; of person stronglie made, and 
manlie: of good courage, great, hardie, and strong withall." 

Page 23 

Elder Christian martyrs: The earliest Christian martyrs, how- 
ever, were enemies of Caesar only in one respect, — they refused 
to burn the incense before Csesar as a god. In all pomts, and 
scrupulously in civil matters, they rendered unto Ctesar the 
things that were Cassar's. a priori: reasonmg from the cause, — 



86 NOTES 

that she is a woman, — to the effect, — that, therefore, she is 
Hable to such weakness, ergo: therejore. 

Page 24 

onus probandi : the burden of proving ; the obUgation of present- 
ing evidence. Bishop of Beauvais: Pierre Cauchon, prime mover 
in every illegal step against Joan. Since Joan was captured in 
his diocese he considered himself her spiritual judge. He it was 
who contended that every prisoner of war might be redeemed " in 
the name of the King of England in consideration of an indemnity 
of ten thousand livres granted to the capturer." The money, 
already deposited in Rouen by Henry, was too much of a tempta- 
tion to John of Luxembourg, and he delivered Joan over to the 
English, relying upon the authority of the Bishop of Beauvais. 

Page 26 

Regent of France : Jolin, Duke of Bedford, uncle of Henry VI. 
Lord of Winchester: the only English member of the court that 
condemned Joan ; he anointed Henry in Notre Dame as king of 
France, though one should rise from the dead : cf. Luke, xvi, 
31 : " Neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the 
dead." a tribunal that rises to the clouds: the picture here pre- 
sented suggests the words of Joan to the bishop when her sentence 
was pronounced: " Bishop, you are the cause of my death; if you 
had put me in the prisons of the Church, and in the hands of fit 
and proper ecclesiastical warders, this had never happened ; I 
appeal from you to the presence of God." Who is this that 
Cometh? Cf. "Who is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed 
garments from Bozrah?" (Isaiah, Ixiii, 1.) 



THE ENGLISH MAH.-COACH 

the glory of motion 
Page 27 

Matriculated: was enrolled as a member of the imiversity. 
M. P. : Member of Parliament, the daughter of a duke : "Lady 
Madeline Gordon." (De Quincey.) Mr. Palmer: John Palmer, 
proprietor of the Theatre Royal of Bath, for the sake of ensuring 
the punctual arrival of his actors, promoted the system of gov- 
ernment coaches to carry the mails and a limited number of pas- 
sengers. Masson thinks, however, that it was another Mr. Palmer 
who married " the daughter of an Earl," and that De Quincey has 
made a mistake here. Galileo (1564-1642): the famous Italian 
physicist and astronomer who constructed the first thermometer 
and telescope; with the latter he discovered the satellites of 
Jupiter, the same thing: "Thus in the calendar of the Church 
Festivals the discovery of the true cross by Helen, mother of 



NOTES 87 

Constantine, is recorded (and one might think — with tlie 
express consciousness of sarcasm) as the Invention of the cross." 
(DeQuincey.) central intellect: All mechanical wonders carry us 
back to marvel at the human mind that evolved them, as all 
natural wonders lead us to the contemplation of the Maker of 
the universe, vast distances: "One case was familiar to mail- 
coach travellers, where two mails in opposite directions, north 
and south, starting the same minute from points six hundred 
miles apart, met almost constantly at a particular bridge which 
bisected the total distance." (De Quincey.) 

Page 28 

Apocalyptic vials: cf. Rev. xvi, 1-18. Trafalgar: the victory 
of Lord Nelson over the French and Spanish fleets off Cape 
Trafalgar, in 1805, — a success which broke the naval power 
of France. This was the crisis which prompted Nelson's words, 
"England expects every man to do his duty." Salamanca: a 
town in Spain, the scene of Wellington's victory in 1812 over 
the allies of Napoleon. Vittoria: a Spanish town where Wellington 
again defeated the French in 1813. Waterloo: the Belgian field 
where, June 18, 1815, Wellington met Napoleon for the final 
struggle. The English lost heavily the first part of the day, but 
finally, recruited by Bliicher and his Prussian troops, they com- 
pletely routed the French. Many a name of square or bridge and 
many a monument in London — as Waterloo Bridge, Trafalgar 
Square with its column in memory of Nelson, the Guards' 
Memorial in Waterloo Place, the monument of the Duke of 
Wellington in St. Paul's — speaks eloquently of the " heart- 
shaking" suspense with which England watched the outcome of 
this struggle with Napoleon. Te Deums: see note on p. 82. were 
not more beneficial, etc. : because these victories, dealing so heavy 
a blow to the principle of tyranny, personified in Napoleon, meant 
a great stride forward in the development of a republican civiliza- 
tion, five and twenty, etc.: designated as Oriel College, Oxford, 
Christchurch, Oxford, etc. the four terms: the four periods of 
the college year are known now as Michaelmas, the autumn term; 
Hilary, which De Quincey calls Lent, the winter term; Easter, the 
spring term; Trinity, formerly called Act because of the act or 
thesis then submitted for a degree, the summer term, the Holy- 
head mail: this line connected at Holyhead with the packet for 
Dublin. De Quincey describes his boyhood journey to Dublin 
■ by this route in Autobiographic Sketches, chap, vi, latter half. 

Page 29 

Charles II: reigned from 1660-1685, so De Quincey gives the 
custom a lifetime of nearly two centuries at the time of his writ- 
ing, quaternion: set of four, delf-ware: originally Delft pot- 
tery, but the term was afterwards applied to an inferior kind of 



88 NOTES 

glazed earthenware wliich imitated the Delft porcelain. Pariahs: 
the pariahs were one of the lowest castes of the South Hindoos, 
usually the serfs of the soil. Of De Quincey's love for the word 
Masson says: "No reader of De Quincey but must have ob- 
served how frequent and important a word in his vocabulary is the 
word Pariah, meaning social outcast, and what a hold had been 
taken of his imagination by the idea that an immense propor- 
tion of the men and women of the world in all ages and all lands 
had belonged to the class of Pariahs." Cf. Autobiographic Notes, 
pp. 113-122 (Boston Edition), salle-a-manger : dining-room. 

Page 30 

snobs: "snobs and its antithesis nobs arose among the internal 
factions of shoemakers perhaps ten years later. Possibly enough 
the terms may have existed much earlier; but they were then 
first made known, picturesquely and effectively, by a trial at some 
assizes which happened to fix the public attention." (De Quincey.) 

Page 31 

Great wits jump: i. e. agree: cf. Shakespeare's line, "They jump 
not on a just account;" Othello I, iii, 5. Lord Macartney: ap- 
pointed by George III as the first ambassador to China in 1792. 
jury-reins: temporary reins; cf. jury-mast, one made to take the 
place temporarily of the regular mast broken or carried away. 

Page 32 

Fo, Fo, . . . Fi, Fi, . . . first lord of the treasury, etc. : all these 
terms are used to make a burlesque of the amusing spectacle. " This 
paragraph is a caricature of a story told in Staunton's Account of 
the Earl of Macartney's Embassy to China in 1792." (Masson.) Ca 
ira: it will go or it will succeed; the refrain of one of the rallying 
songs of the French Revolution. It is said that it was suggested 
to the French by Franklin's saying of the American Revolution, 
"Caira!" Aristotle's, Zeno's, Cicero's: all three are prominent 
philosophers in the history of ethics. Aristotle taught the beauty 
of living in the mean between all extremes; Zeno founded the 
Stoic school; Cicero's work which De Quincey probably has 
in mind is De Officiis (Of Duties), hustings: the platform on 
which candidates for Parliament used to stand in addressing the 
electors. British Museum: the celebrated museum of London, 
containing wonders too numerous to mention. Among them the 
most famous, perhaps, are the library, including all the rare old 
books taken from the monasteries by Henry VIII and the thou- 
sands of volumes placed there by Georges III and IV; original 
manuscripts; the Elgin marbles; the Rosetta Stone; the Egyp- 
tian and Assyrian art collections. 

Page 33 

noters, protesters: those who refuse to accept a note or draft. 
posse : posse comitatus is the legal term for the band of assistants 



NOTES 89 

which may be summoned by a sheriff, blunderbuss: hterally, a 
thunder box; a shotgun with a bore large enoug|i to hit the mark 
without a careful aim. Van Troll's Icelaxid: "The allusion to a 
well-known chapter in Van Troll's work, entitled, 'Concerning 
the snakes in Iceland.' The entire chapter consists of these six 
words, — 'There are no snakes in Iceland.'" (De Quincey.) 
parliamentary rat: in English politics the term rat is applied 
to one who for personal interests deserts his party, forbidden 
seat: "The very sternest code of rules was enforced upon the 
mails by the Post Office. Throughout England, only three out- 
siders were allowed, of whom one was to sit on the box; none, 
under any pretext, to come near the guard; an indispensable 
caution, since else, under the guise of passenger, a robber might 
— by any one of a thousand advantages which sometimes are 
created, but always are favored, by the animation of frank 
social intercourse — have disarmed the guard. Beyond the 
Scottish border, the regulation was so far relaxed as to allow of 
four outsides, but not relaxed at all as to the mode of placing 
them. One, as before, was seated on the box, and the other three 
on the front of the roof, with a determinate and ample separation 
from the little insulated chair of the guard. This relaxation was 
conceded by way of compensating to Scotland her disadvantages 
in point of population. England, by the superior density of her 
population, might always count upon a large fund of profits in 
the fractional trips of chance passengers riding for short dis- 
tances of two or three stages. In Scotland, this chance counted 
for much less, and therefore, to make good the deficiency, Scot- 
land was allowed a compensatory profit upon one extra passen- 
ger." (De Quincey.) laesa majestas: /n",9/! /rea.son. Jam proxinius 
ardet Ucalegon: — 

" Down falls the palace of Deiphobus 
Amid the conquerinpj flames; Ucalegon 
Next burns. The broad Ligeau waves reflect 
The liery glow." 

^neid, ii, 311-313, Cranch's translation. 
Page 34 

Coptic: the ancient Egyptian language was Coptic in hieroglyph- 
ics. Booked: the ticket office is the booking office in England. 
benefit of clergy: the exemption of the clergy from criminal 
process before a secular court. The privilege was based upon 
the authority of 1 Chron. xvi, 22, " Touch not mine anointed, 
and do my prophets no harm." It was abolished in the reign of 
George IV. systole and diastole : the contraction and expansion 
of the heart and arteries. Quarter Sessions : in English law a gen- 
eral court of crimin.al jurisdiction held quarterly in the different 
counties. 



90 NOTES 

Page 35 

false echoes of Marengo: "Yes, false! for the words ascribed 
to Napoleon, as breathed to the memory of Desaix, never were 
uttered at all. They stand in the same category of theatrical fic- 
tion as the cry of the foundering line-of-battle ship Vengeur, as the 
vaunt of General Cambronne at Waterloo, ' La Garde meurt, 
mais ne se rend pas ' (The guard dies, but does not surrender) , 
or as the repartees of Talleyrand." (DeQuincey.) Napoleon won 
the battle of Marengo in 1800 after the capture of Milan, and all 
fortresses south of the Po immediately surrendered to him. a 
fortiori: with still stronger reason. Brummagem: the name 
applied to inferior metallic articles made in imitation of the 
genuine ones: the vulgar pronunciation of Birmingham: "false, 
fleeting, perjured " recalls Shakespeare's "false, fleeting, perjured 
Clarence;" Richard III, I, iv, 55. Luxor: see note on p. 87. Jaco- 
binical: revolutionary; the word is derived from the Jacobins of 
the French Revolution, who held their meetings in the Jacobin 
convent in Rue St. Jacques in Paris. 

Page 36 

Which they upon the adverse faction wanted : cf . 

" Besides the Khig's name 's a tower of .'strength, 
Which thev upon the adverse party want." 

Richard III, V, iii, 12-13. 

omrahs: the Indian term for court grandees. Agra: a city of 
Hindostan. Lahore: a city of the Punjab. 

Page 37 

Roman pearls: imitations made very perfect by a careful process. 
The Welshman doubted: De Quincey is laughing at the Welsh- 
man's lack of humor; and is referring to chapter 18 of the 6th of 
Edward Longshanks (Edward I) to continue the joke, inasmuch 
as that statute has only fifteen chapters, alien evidence: that of 
an on-looker. Non magna loquimur, etc. : we do not boast {speak) 
great things, but ive do (lire) them. 

Page 38 

Salamanca: .see note on p. 89. Nile: the battle at Aboukir in 
1798, in which the Englisii fleet under Nelson annihilated the 
French under Napoleon, pot-wallopings: the word is purely 
onomatopoetic. Marlborough forest: in Wiltshire on the coach 
road between London and Bath. 

Page 39 

wore the Royal livery: "The general impression was that the 
Royal livery belonged by right to the mail coachmen as their 
professional dress. But that was an error. To the guard it did 
belong, I believe, and was obviously essential as an official war- 
rant, and as a means of instant identification for his person, in 



NOTES \)1 

the discliarge of liis important public duties. But the coachman, 
and especially if his place in the series did not connect him im- 
mediately with London and the General Post Office, obtained the 
scarlet coat only as an honorary distinction after long (or, if not 
long, trying and special) service." (DeQuincey.) Ulysses: "He, 
just as long as he had arrows to defend him, shot down a suitor 
in the hall with every aim, and side by side they fell. . . . He 
found them all laid low in blood and dust, and in such numbers as 
the fish which fishermen draw to the shelving shore out of the 
foaming sea in meshy nets." {Odyssey, Bk. xxi, Palmer's transla- 
tion.) The whole story of the slaying of the suitors may be found 
in Books xxi and xxii. 

P.\GE 40 

"Say, all our praises, etc.:" cf. Pope's Epistle III, Of the Use of 
Riches, 11. 249-250. 

"Hut all our praises why shuulil lords eufjross ? 
Rise, honest Muse! and sing liie Man of Ross." 
turrets: "As one who loves and venerates Chaucer for his un- 
rivalled merits of tenderness, of picturesque characterization, and 
of narrative skill, I noticed with great pleasure that the word 
torettes is used by him to designate the little devices through which 
the reins are made to pass. This same word, in the same exact 
sense, I heard uniformly used by many scores of illustrious mail- 
coachmen to whose confidential friendship I had the honor of 
being admitted in my younger days." (DeQuincey.) However, in 
The Knight's Tale Chaucer uses the word torets in " torets fyled 
rounde" to mean a different thing, namely, the swivels for fas- 
tening the leash to a dog's collar. 

Page 41 

the time of the Pharaohs: a time dating as far back as the days 
of the patriarch Abraham. Mr.Waterton: " Had the reader lived 
through the last generation, he would not need to be told that 
some thirty or thirty-five years back, Mr. Waterton, a distin- 
guished country gentleman of ancient family in Northumberland, 
publicly mounted and rode in top-boots a savage old crocodile 
that was restive and very impertinent, but all to no purpose. The 
crocodile jibbed and tried to kick, but vainly. He was no more 
able to throw the squire than Sinbad was to throw the old scoun- 
drel who used his back without paying for it, until he discovered 
a mode (slightly immoral, perhaps, though some think not) of 
murdering the old fraudulent jockey, and so circuitously of 
unhorsing him." (De Quincey.) slow coach: in the sense of a 
lumbering fellow ; a pun which De Quincey enjovs. 

Page 42 

lovely households: " Roe-deer do not congregate in herds like the 
fallow or the red deer, but by separate families, parents and chil- 



92 XOTKS 

dren, which feature of approxiniution to the sanctity of human 
hearths, added to their comparatively miniature and graceful 
proportions, conciliate to them an interest of peculiar tenderness, 
supposing even that this beautiful creature is less characteristic- 
ally impressed with the grandeurs of savage and forest life." (De 
Quincey.) a period of about ten years : 1805-1815. Titans: the 
fabled giants of mythology, children of Heaven and Eartli, who, 
being confined in Tartarus, piled mountains upon mountains to 
climb back again into heaven, baubling: insignificant (obsolete). 
audacity: "such the French accounted it." (De Quincey.) 

Page 43 

Lombard Street: so named from the Lombard merchants of the 
Middle Ages who, before the time of Edward II, had established 
themselves there as bankers. The street is still a great banking 
centre, at that time: " I speak of the era previous to Waterloo." 
(De Quincey.) General Post OflBice: was removed from Lombard 
Street in 1825 to occupy the site of the old university and church 
of St. Martin's-le-Grand. Attelage: team, including vehicle and 
horses. 

Page 44 

Badajoz : the English three times during the Peninsular War be- 
sieged it, and finally took it under Wellington in 1812. three hun- 
dred: "Of necessity, this scale of measurement to an American, if 
he happens to be a thoughtless man, must sound ludicrous." (De 
Quincey.) 

Page 45 

infinite London : a figure of speech that comes very near being 
literal. Barnet: a market towm of Hertfordshire about eleven 
miles north of London. 

Page 46 

containing the gazette: the official annoimcement of the great 
victory. 

Page 47 

fey: literally, according to its Anglo-Saxon derivation, fated or 
doomed; more remotely it must be applied to a per.son in any 
exaggerated mood, glittering laurels: "I must observe that the 
color of green suffers almost a spiritual change and exaltation 
under the effect of Bengal lights." (De Quincev.) Talavera: the 
scene of the victory of Wellington and the Spanish ally Cuesta 
over the French in 1809. Peninsular army: the term was applied 
to the English army in Spain. 

Page 48 

aceldama: the Aceldama was, according to legend, the Potter's 
Field south of Jerusalem, bought with tlie monev which Judas 
accepted for betraying Christ, hence called the " field of blood." 
De Quincey uses the word here to describe the battlefield. 



NOTES 



the vision of sudden death 

Page 49 

Caesar, the Dictator: according to the story told by both Plu- 
tarch and Suetonius, Csesar, on the day before his death, at a 
feast at the house of Marcus Lepidus, expressed his desire for 
sudden and unexpected death. 

Page 50 

fiiaOavaTos : the nearest Greek to this form seems to be Piaio- 
ddvaro^, one who dies a violent death ; a treatise by John Donne, 
however, bears De Quincey's form for its title; and the meaning 
of the word is perfectly clear, although its form is not classical. 

Page 52 

"Nature from her seat," etc.: cf. Milton's Paradise Lost, Bk. ix. 
11. 782-784: — 

"Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat 
Sighing through all her workss gave sign of woe, 
That all was lost." 

Page 53 

jus dominii: the right of ownership, jus gentium: the law of 
nations. 

Page 54 

"Monstrum horrendum,"etc.: Virgil's /Eneid, iii, 658. De Quin- 
cey furnishes the translation in his following words. The allusion 
is to Polyphemus the Cyclops, whose eye was put out by Ulysses. 
Calendars: the three princes, each of whom had lost his right eye, 
disguised as begging friars. Al Sirat: the bridge swinging over 
Hell, leading from Earth to Paradise, according to Mahometan 
teaching. It was pictured as narrower than a sword's edge, so 
those encumbered by load of sin could scarcely hope to cross it 
safely. 

Page 55 

called me procrastinating: to such a fault De Quincey's publisher, 
Mr. Hogg, could have well borne witness, confluent: "Suppose 
a capital Y (the Pythagorean letter) . Lancaster is at the foot of 
this letter; Liverpool at the top of the right branch; Manchester 
at the top of the left; proud Preston at the centre, where the two 
branches unite. It is thirty-three miles along either of the two 
branches; it is twenty-two miles along the stem, — viz., from 
Preston in the middle to Lancaster at the root. There 's a lesson 
in geography for the reader." (De Quincey.) 

Page 56 

the whole Pagan Pantheon: all the gods of pagan mythology 
together. Seven atmospheres of sleep: it would be rather hard 
to count up the requisite seven periods of sleep unless, as Dr. Hart 
suggests, "the three nights plus the three days, plus the present 



94 NOTES 

night, equal seven." Probably it is the association of the number 
seven that compels De Quincey to use it here. 

Page 57 

Lilliputian Lancaster: as the Lilliputians were but pygmies in 
comparison v/ith Gulliver, so Lancaster was but an insignificant 
town in comparison with Liverpool or Manchester. Twice in the 
year: " There were at that time only two assizes even in the most 
populous counties, — viz., the Lent assizes and the summer 
assizes." (De Quincey.) On this occasion, etc.: it is interesting 
to hear the hush which De Quincey has suggested by the use of s 
in the descriptive sentences of this paragraph, sigh-bom thoughts : 
" I owe the suggestion of this word to an obscure remembrance of 
a beautiful phrase in ' Giraldus Cambrensis' (a Welsh historian), 
— viz., suspiriosae cogitationes." (De Quincey.) my own native 
county: De Quincey, it will be recalled, was born near Man- 
chester. 

Page 58 

orchestral part: the single note of each part made up an orches- 
tral harmony, or the "state of unity" referred to below. 

Page 59 

wrong side of the road: "According to the English custom they 
should have been upon the left side from us ; it is true that, ac- 
cording to the law of the case as established by legal precedents, 
all carriages were required to give way before Royal equipages, 
and therefore before the mail as one of them. But this only 
increased the danger, as being a regulation very imperfectly made 
known, very unequally enforced, and therefore oftsn embarrass- 
ing the movements on both sides." (De Quincey.) quartering: 
this is the technical word, probaiily derived from the French 
carfayer, to evade a rut or any obstacle. 

Page 61 

the shout of Achilles : 

" Thrice o'er the breach Achilles shouted ; tlirice 
The men of Troy and their renowned alhes 
Fell into wild disorder." 

(Iliad, xviii, '285-287, Bryant's translation.) 
aided by Pallas : 

"And Pallas, from tlie host, returned his shout." 

(Iliad, xviii, 271.) 

a shilling a day: the pay of a soldier in the standing army. 

dream-fugue 
Page 65 

Whence the sound, etc.: Paradise Lost, Blv. xi, 11. 558-563. 
averted signs: "I read the courses and clianges of the lady's 
agony in the succession of her involuntary gestures; but it must 



NOTES 95 

be remembered that I read all this from the rear, never once 
catching the lady's full face, and even her profile imperfectly." 
(De Quincey.) woman's Ionic form: according to Vitruvius, the 
Ionic column, using the female figure as a standard, was made 
eight times its thickness in height; whereas the Doric order took 
the proportion of six to one, copying after the male figure. 

Page 66 

corymbi: clusters of flowers or fruit. 

Page 69 

Minster: cathedral. Campo Santo: "It is probable that most 
of my readers will be acquainted with the history of the Campo 
Santo (or cemetery) at Pisa, composed of earth brought from 
Jerusalem for a bed of sanctity, as the highest prize which the 
noble piety of crusaders could ask or imagine. To readers who 
are unacquainted with England, or who (being English) are yet 
unacquainted with the cathedral cities of England, it may be 
right to mention that the graves within-side the cathedrals 
often form a flat pavement over which carriages and horses might 
run; and perhaps a boyish remembrance of one particular 
cathedral, across which I had seen passengers walk and burdens 
carried, as about two centuries back they were through the 
middle of St. Paul's in London, may have assisted my dream." 
(De Quincey.) 

Page 70 

from Crecy to Trafalgar: cf. notes on p. 79 and p. 89. 

Page 71 

horns of the altar: cf. "Joab caught hold on the horns of the 
altar" (1 Kings ii, 28). Sanctus: an anthem beginning with the 
words Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus {Holy holy, holy). 

The following appeared in De Quincey 's introduction (1855) to that 
volume of his collected works which contained The English Mail- 
Coach . 

"The English Mail-Coach : Thirty-seven years ago, or rather more, 
accident made me, in the dead of night, and of a night memorably 
solemn, the solitary witness to an appalling scene, which threatened 
instant death, in a shape the most terrific, to two young people whom 
I had no means of assisting, except in so far as I was able to give them 
a most hurried warning of their danger; but even that not till they 
stood within the very shadow of the catastrophe, being divided from 
the most frightful of deaths by scarcely more, if more at all, than 
seventy seconds. 

" Such was the scene, such in its outline, from which the whole of this 
paper radiates as a natural expression. The scene is circumstantially 
narrated in Section the Second, entitled 'The Vision of Sudden 
Death.' 



96 NOTES 

" But a movement of horror and of spontaneous recoil from this 
dreadful scene naturally carried the whole of that scene, raised and 
idealized, into my dreams, and very soon into a rolling succession of 
dreams. The actual scene, as looked down upon from the box of the 
mail, was transformed into a dream, as tumultuous and changing as 
a musical fugue. This troubled dream is circumstantially reported 
in Section the Third, entitled ' Dream-Fugue upon the Theme of 
Sudden Death.' What I had beheld from my seat upon the mail, — 
the scenical strife of action and passion, of anguish and fear, as I had 
there witnessed them moving in ghostly silence; this duel between life 
and death narrowing itself to a point of such exquisite evanescence as 
the collision neared, — all these elements of the scene blended, under 
the law of association, with the previous and permanent features of 
distinction investing the mail itself, which features, at that time, lay 
— first, in velocity unprecedented; secondly, in the power and beauty 
of the horses; thirdly, in the official connection with the government 
of a great nation; and fourthly, in the function, almost a consecrated 
function, of publishing and diffusing through the land the great politi- 
cal events, and especially the great battles during a conflict of unparal- 
leled grandeur. These honorary distinctions are all described circum- 
stantially in the First or introductory section, 'The Glory of Motion.' 
The first three were distinctions maintained at all times; but the 
fourth and grandest belonged exclusively to the war with Napoleon; 
and this it was which most naturally introduced Waterloo into the 
dream. Waterloo, I understood, was the particular feature of the 
' Dream-Fugue ' which my censors were least able to account for. 
[Some critics had professed their inability to apprehend the meaning 
of the essay.] Yet surely Waterloo, which, in common with every 
other great battle, it had been our special privilege to publish all over 
the land, most naturally entered the Dream under the license of our 
privilege. 

" So far as I know, every element in the shifting movements of the 
dream derived itself either primarily from the incidents of the actual 
scene, or from secondary features associated with the mail. For 
example, the cathedral aisle derived itself from the mimic combination 
of features which grouped themselves together at the point of ap- 
proaching collision, namely an arrow-like section of the road, six hun- 
dred yards long, under the solemn lights described, with lofty trees 
meeting overhead in arches. The guard's horn again — a humble 
instrument in itself — was yet glorified as the organ of publication for 
so many great national events. And the incidents of the Dying Trum- 
peter, who rises from a marble bas-relief, and carries a marble trumpet 
to his marble lips for the purpose of warning the female infant, was 
doubtless secretly suggested by my own imperfect effort to seize the 
guard's horn and to blow a warning blast." 



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